It's a Nice Day to Start Again
by S. Faith
Summary: The unthinkable has happened, much to Mark Darcy's dismay. Chapters: 11 and epilogue. Movie universe.
1. Chapter 1

**It's a Nice Day to Start Again**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 78,546  
Chapters: 11 + epilogue  
Rating: M / R  
Summary: The unthinkable has happened, much to Mark Darcy's dismay.  
Disclaimer: Not my characters. They only dance to my whim.  
Notes: Much love for my Peanut partner in crime.  
Warning: **Mild spoilers.** Parts of this story may have trigger-y effects on you if you've ever had a difficult pregnancy.

* * *

Chapter 1

Beside him was a beautiful woman, sleeping contentedly and evidently satiated; he could not help gazing upon her, trying to find some tangible proof to justify how close he felt to her. He should have been the happiest man on earth, but he wasn't, because he couldn't help feeling it was all going to fall apart. She was too good for him, and with the temptation he faced daily—and specifically the temptation awaiting him in London newly arrived from the US—it was only a matter of time before he did something to muck it up.

Maybe he didn't deserve her. Or maybe…

"Jones," he said quietly. "I have something I need to say."

…

_Sun, 30 Apr – Fri, 5 May_

It didn't surprise him, not really, when he learned that she would not be attending the party after all. After the conversation he had heard the night before—in which the man she was currently seeing was speaking surreptitiously to someone he felt comfortable calling 'love' and 'darling'—he was expecting the split to happen sooner rather than later.

"I'm a bit concerned for her, Mark," his mother confided when he expressed that he had noticed her absence. "I hope that boyfriend of hers hasn't hurt her."

Mark hoped the same—he was all too aware of the pain her boyfriend was capable of inflicting. His mother continued speaking.

"Pam and Colin—" Her parents. "—have been besides themselves hoping to meet him but every time that's arranged, something comes up and he can't make it."

This didn't surprise him in the least; there was little doubt he could have lasted under the scrutiny of their questions, particularly if they ever made the connection with a scandal that had ripped through the little village of Grafton Underwood a couple of years back. It was not worth making that connection for his mother, since it was clear to him that she hadn't made it on her own—Mark considered that perhaps now that she was free, he could approach and make a new start.

He realised he was being optimistic… but he hadn't been optimistic in a while when it came to his love life.

Upon returning to London late Sunday, Mark stared at the crumpled piece of paper, one that his mother had slipped to him back in January after the Turkey Curry Buffet, one that bore her phone number. He considered the time and reasoned that it was far too late to call.

He stared at it again the next night, and the next two, after arriving home far too late from work. He was too polite to call beyond nine in the evening. On Thursday, however, as he ate home alone at only seven, he spotted the piece of paper jutting out from where he had tucked it beneath the answerphone.

_When you're done eating, call_, he told himself.

He did. The phone rang five times before a recorded message sounded into his ear.

"Hi, you've reached Bridget Jones' line—I've gone out of town, and when I'm back will have tales to tell," said her voice; a low voice in the background said something that was not intelligible to him, but he wagered a guess it was regarding the wisdom of announcing she was leaving her flat unoccupied when she added hastily, "so I've left my vicious guard dog to watch the place whilst I'm away. Bye!"

He hung up the phone, slightly bewildered; what could she have meant by this?

He tried again the following night, but when the same message played again he again returned the phone to the receiver before picking it up again and ringing his mother. He did not wish to engage in idle gossip like the ladies of his hometown, but if his mother could impart any information to clear up this confusion, he would prefer to no longer be in the dark.

"Darcy residence, Elaine speaking."

"Mother, it's me."

"Oh, Mark, I'm so glad you've called," his mother said dramatically, which was rather unlike her. "I'd rather you heard from me."

"Heard what?" he asked automatically in a crisp voice.

"It's about…" She took in a deep breath. "It's about Bridget."

"What about her?" he asked, feeling suddenly and surprisingly panicked about the answer she might give.

"Much to everyone's surprise… her boyfriend—" she began; he wished she would just cut to the chase already. However, when she did, he wished he'd chosen to remain ignorant: "—is now her husband."

He staggered until he felt the support of the breakfast nook against his back. How was it possible that they were married so suddenly? But he knew, because if anyone was painfully aware of the legal hoops to jump through to pull off a wedding this quickly, Mark was, and now he regretted ever having shared that information with a man who had a steel trap for a mind.

…

_The previous weekend_

"Daniel! Stop being a jerk," she said, laughing and buffeting him playfully with a firm hotel pillow.

"Bridge, love, I'm not kidding," he said. And in a flash of light he knew he wasn't. It had taken this weekend to make him realise in a deeply profound way how utterly lost he would be without her, how terrified he was of losing her. In all his three-plus decades, he had never been involved with a woman quite like Bridget before. Spending time outside of the bedroom was not actually a chore, not like it had been with some of his past flings; on the contrary, it was something he quite enjoyed, but not something he expected in his life, now or ever. He did not want to be doomed to a future of lonely desperation, hitting on women (_Girls, more like_, he thought), failing miserably, and finding consolation at the bottom of a bottle of booze. "I can make this happen by this time tomorrow. I know people with the right connections. All you need to do is to look gorgeous."

As he continued speaking, she looked increasingly shocked. "You aren't kidding," she said in a whisper. He thought maybe he had just doomed himself forever, that she was about to chuck him, but she smiled, radiating absolute happiness. "_Yes!_" she exclaimed suddenly. "Let's do it!"

She then kissed him so passionately he forgot that he suddenly had a wedding to arrange. It was not until he woke after dozing that he remembered with an excited and terrified thrumming of his heart that he had actually proposed, that she had accepted, and that so he had calls to make. He grabbed his cigarettes, took his mobile out to the hall so as not to rouse her, lighting up as a party of bridesmaids—_Surely a providential sign_, he thought, _that it's us and a wedding party occupying the hotel_—whizzed past him in the hall.

The first call was to a childhood friend, Suzanne, who had connections when it came to special (and quite expensive, but he had the money) wedding licences.

"Darling," he said as Suzanne answered, smoothly but quietly so not to disturb the others on the floor. "I am terribly sorry to bother you but I need a favour."

"Daniel," she said. "It's Saturday night. _Late_ Saturday night, I might add."

"And I will make it worth your while. I promise, love."

She sighed heavily into her phone. "What is it that you need?"

He gave her the short outline of their plans for the next day, speaking even more softly when another wayward bridesmaid came scuttling down the hall. He wasn't surprised when Suzanne retorted with a sceptical response. "You, getting married? I find that as likely as a panda walking a tightrope over Niagara Falls."

"I know, love, I know," he pleaded. "It must seem…"

"Ridiculous?" she replied, which he completely deserved.

"Yes—but I am also dead certain. More certain than I've been about anything in my life."

"You do realise tomorrow is Sunday."

"I do, darling. I do."

She was silent for many moments. "I can't believe I'm asking this, but: when can you be back to London?"

They had some things to do, like shopping to put her into the most stylish dress they could find. "Could leave first thing in the morning. Where can I meet you?"

"At the registrar's?"

"Perfect. I'll call you when the car's close. See you then, love."

"Bring your chequebook," she said brightly before disconnecting.

He stowed the mobile in the pocket of his robe, and looked up only to see he had been observed, after all, by a man who had clearly just ascended the stairs, his former friend, Mark Darcy. Daniel only smiled stiffly.

"Call you can't make from the room?" Mark asked coolly.

Contempt exuded from him; the feeling was mutual, so his response was less than eloquent: "Oh, just go fuck yourself, Darcy."

"Such a command of the language," came the droll retort; "the literary world is very lucky to have you at its helm." Mark, with an icy glare, then swept past him, down the hall and into his own room, to his own spindly girlfriend. With some amusement, Daniel imagined that the two of them having a shag produced the sound of brittle kindling breaking. He burst out into a laugh.

His own door opened, and he turned to it to see a very sleepy Bridget. "What are you doing out here, laughing like a maniac?" she asked.

He considered explaining, but thought better of bringing up Arsey Darcy again. "Nothing," he said. "Just starting on getting things arranged for tomorrow, and didn't want to wake you."

…

After almost four months of bliss with Daniel and one near-perfect minibreak, Bridget could hardly believe he'd proposed already—and she could hardly be faulted for thinking he'd been joking around, because he frequently did. And they'd be doing it ASAP! She grinned beatifically to him. "Oh," she said dreamily. He took her into his arms, nuzzled into her neck, which made her knees go weak.

"Just leave it all to me," he said in a soft purr, close to her ear. "You'll be the most gorgeous bride there ever was, I'll make sure of it."

She put her arms around his neck, raking her nails through his silky hair. She might not have been getting a fairy-tale wedding, but what could have been more romantic than this? She didn't know quite how to thank him, so instead, just kissed him again. "Does this mean I can get a posh dress tomorrow?"

"It does."

"Ooh," she said, shivering with delight. "And what about a honeymoon?"

"Of course," he murmured. "I'll talk to your boss giving you the time off."

She giggled, squeezing him tightly. "What about you?

"I'll be fine. I'll put Perpetua in charge."

Bridget giggled again. "She'll go mad with power."

"I won't care," he said, drawing back to meet her gaze; his hands slipped to her waist. "The place could be razed to the ground. I'd be perfectly content."

She felt her eyes well a bit—was he too good to be true?—and leaned to kiss him again. There were no doubts in her mind that she was rushing into this. Everything about it felt right and perfect—even if her mother was likely bollock her for essentially eloping.

They ordered some wine and some chocolates from room service as Daniel made his other calls—one to a travel agent (a call to which she was forbidden to listen), one to Perpetua to pass over the reins for the week (Bridget could hear her excited, quivering voice over the phone from her position on the bed), a call to a couple of his friends to be witnesses (one, a professional photographer)—before he set the mobile down and turned to her again. "A little practice for the honeymoon," he said.

The next twenty-four hours went by in a bit of a blur. There was the buying of the dress, the packing of bags (and locating of the passport), a quick trip to a salon for an appropriate coiffure, and his presenting her with a ring that had belonged to his grandmother as "quite possibly the shortest-tenure engagement ring on record"—but nothing compared to that moment, the actual ceremony in the registrar's, where they said "I do", kissed, then signed what needed signing.

"I hope this will do," Daniel said when it came to the exchanging of the rings. She laughed a little. In the palm of his hand rested a couple of cheap rings that looked like they'd come out of an old gumball machine. "For now, obviously," he added hastily.

Before she knew it, she was a married woman strolling hand in hand with her new husband on the shore of an aquamarine Greek sea. Everything was perfect in every way, she said to herself, as he took her into his arms and kissed her.

…

_Fri, 5 May_

"Mark? Are you still there?"

His mother's voice brought him back to his senses from his sudden reverie. "Yes, I'm sorry," he said. "I'm here. I'm just… surprised."

"Surprised?"

"At the suddenness of this all," he said; he chose not to voice his thought regarding the impossible having happened: that Daniel Cleaver had committed himself to a single woman. A woman, he realised, towards whom he was developing an attraction.

"Pam is beside herself," said his mother. "She's torn, because she's always worried that Bridget would never marry, but by the same token she's a bit irritated that she didn't get to participate in the process, and she doesn't know the groom at all. According to her, he could 'be anyone.'"

Mark nearly literally bit his tongue. He thought they all deserved to know exactly with whom Bridget had entangled herself, but he also, oddly enough, did not wish to prejudice them all on the remotest chance that Daniel had actually reformed himself and honestly loved her. He doubted it, but nonetheless he would not be the instrument of gossip in this way. Neutrally he said, "She should just hope her daughter knows what she's doing."

"How very… diplomatic of you, Mark," said his mother, an edge of amusement in her voice. "See you on Sunday for lunch?"

"Lunch?"

"You and Natasha. You agreed last weekend."

He remembered suddenly. His mother had asked, Natasha had agreed, and he'd had little say in the matter, though he'd seen no real harm in going. "Right. I'll see you then."

They exchanged good nights before disconnecting. Mark wished he'd intervened when he'd caught Daniel in the hallway on the phone with another woman, even if he had no idea what he would have possibly done. _Besides punch him in the face_, Mark thought with a sigh; while it would have been satisfying, violence wasn't a real answer.

"Why do I care anyway?" he asked aloud to no one. He barely knew Bridget; she didn't like him anyway; even still, he could not put her out of his mind… out in the punting boat, the image of her lit by the golden sun, the reflections on the water dazzling his eyes in a halo around her. She'd been laughing as if she had not a care in the world; she looked over the rim of her sunglasses to him… and how he'd wished more than anything in the world that he could have exchanged places with Daniel in that moment.

If Daniel dared hurt her… or spoil that _joie de vivre_ she had… he _would_ resort to violence.

…

_Sat, 6 May_  
_(post-honeymoon)_

"I suppose that could have gone worse," said Bridget in a glum voice, hanging up the phone. Daniel tightened his arm around her, squeezed his hand on her shoulder.

"What did she say?"

Bridget had only previously left a message on her mother's answerphone about the elopement; it was only now that she actually spoke to her directly. "Typically contradictory. Congratulated me effusively; scolded me for depriving her of the memories of a dream wedding for her only daughter."

Daniel chuckled.

"And she's annoyed that she's never even met you," Bridget added. "And my father… I don't think he's ever been so angry. It's worrying."

"We can fix that," he said. "Tell them to come to London. I'll treat them to a really posh supper."

She narrowed her eyes. "And you won't back out of it?"

If he was going to be a good husband, be accepted into her family, he needed to get in their good books. "I won't. It was a mistake not to meet them first, and for that I'm sorry."

Her features softened and she smiled.

"What am I thinking?" Daniel said. "Hand me the phone. Dial the number. I'll ask them myself." She did just that, and he waited for them to answer.

"Jones residence, Pam Jones speaking."

"Mrs Jones, this is Daniel Cleaver."

Silence. "Daniel," she said. "Bridget's… Daniel?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

There was the sound of the receiver being taken over, then a man's irritated, gruff voice barked into his ear. "Daniel Cleaver, the man who stole my daughter away?" Mr Jones, Daniel presumed.

"I am sorry, sir," he said with contrition. He looked to Bridget. "We got caught up in the moment, but now that we're back to the real world, facing our responsibilities, I have every intention of making it up to you. I feel I need show you I'm sincere in having married your daughter."

Mr Jones was silent for a moment. "Making it up to us how?"

"I would like, as a start, to have you and your wife over for dinner."

"In London?"

"Yes, sir. I feel it's only right that you see where she'll be living, and that I'm prepared to take good care of her."

"When?"

He looked to Bridget, mouthed, "When?"

"Whenever," she whispered. "Tomorrow?"

He spoke up again. "If tomorrow suits you, I'll make all the arrangements." Bridget nodded approvingly.

Bridget's father was silent again for many seconds. "Tomorrow suits us just fine."

"Terrific. I'll send a car to pick you up at about five."

"We'll be leaving the house at half four," countered Mr Jones.

Daniel understood; he didn't want a car. "Yes, of course. Here's the address." He then proceeded to give the address to Mr Jones.

"Until then, Mr Cleaver."

"Yes, sir, Mr Jones. Until then."

After he hung up the phone again, Bridget threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. "You were brilliant," she gushed. "They're going to _love_ you."

He smiled; she was so good for his ego. "It's too bad I don't have any birds for him to hunt, or a creek for him to fish in." She laughed. "That's another thing we need to do," he said. "Move you in with me."

…

Bridget thought of living in his lush flat with all of that light and those books, and she was filled with another bloom of love. She did not, however, relish the thought of packing up all of her things.

"I know what that face is about," he said, startling her—could he possibly have read her mind? "We are both too busy to deal with it. I can hire movers."

Her mouth dropped into an O. "You _can_ read my mind," she stated unequivocally.

This made him laugh and hug her.

"Oh!" she said suddenly, pushing back. "Where shall we put my books?"

He laughed again. "I'll evict that Bosnian family from the spare room."

"Jane Austen will not be relegated to a spare room."

He took her into his arms again. "I think we'll be able work something out." He pecked her sweetly on the lips. "You should pack a bag," he said, "we'll go to my flat, and I'll carry you over the threshold."

They did exactly that. When it came time for him to carry her over the threshold, there was none of his usual jokey manner; no struggles, feigned or otherwise, in picking her up into his arms, just a smooth sweep before gingerly stepping into the flat, then kissing her softly on the mouth as he set her to stand on her feet again.

_Everyone was wrong about him_, she thought, tears springing to her eyes. _Dead wrong._

She was further convinced of this when she woke the following morning to find Daniel pacing nervously around the kitchen area of his flat. She noticed too that the place was even tidier than before; he must have woken early to tend to it.

"Bridge. I'm hopeless," he said.

"What? No, you're not."

"What will impress them? What do they like for supper?"

She smiled tenderly. "They're pretty easy to impress. Maybe a nice roast, carrots, new potatoes?"

"It's coming on to summer," Daniel countered. "Running the oven for hours is maybe not the best idea."

"How about a green salad with… oh, I don't know, cold chicken, some parmesan, tomato…"

A slow smile crept across his features. "Greek olives and a nice vinaigrette."

"Balsamic," Bridget offered helpfully.

"That sounds great."

She furrowed her brows as it occurred to her that she did not know whether Daniel could cook. He laughed and to her horror she realised she had voiced her thoughts aloud. "I can cook passably well," he said through his quieting chuckles. "Though I may have to draw the line at dessert. I've never been much of a baker."

"Lemon meringue pie," she said. "You'll win my dad over in no time flat."

"I suppose we should get our day started, then," he said. "But not before I snog you senseless."

She began to giggle again before he covered her mouth with his own.

…

Within five minutes of his lunch date, Mark had regretted making it. Natasha had somehow heard about the surprise nuptials—Mark suspected her friend Perpetua had been the source of her information—and now that Bridget was no longer perceived as a rival for Mark's affection, Natasha had done a complete about-face in her opinion.

"It's so _romantic_," Natasha gushed as she sipped at her wine. "Swept away on impulse to marry, with no care for convention, driven only by love… don't you think it's romantic, Mark?"

It was an unlikely comment to come out of the decidedly practical and unemotional Natasha—who had often scoffed at sentimental gestures and lack of forethought—and it sent red flags shooting up. She had not made any secret of the fact that she thought Mark would be an ideal husband for her, if only in terms of the perfect merger. She had also never been one for subtlety. "It was a rash decision," he said carefully, "one which I think will be a major regret in the stark light of day."

"It's romantic," she repeated, "and given Bridget's impetuous nature…" She trailed off.

"Yes?" Mark bristled.

"Well, I just meant I'm not surprised she would have done this," Natasha said. "I totally respect her bravery in jumping in with both feet… for _love_."

He sipped his wine, wishing this conversation would come to an end. If she thought he was going to bolt up and insist in a moment of inspiration that they do the same, she was out of her mind.

And to think he had agreed to repeat this insanity with Natasha at his parents' house the following day.

…

_Sun, 7 May_

The Joneses came in with warm greetings for their daughter, but to Daniel her mother only offered a polite smile and a peck on the cheek; from her father, a stern expression and a very firm handshake.

"We brought some wine," said Mrs Jones, handing over a bottle of chardonnay.

"Thank you," Daniel said, accepting the bottle with a smile.

"We know it's one of Bridget's favourites," said Mr Jones tersely.

Daniel predicted her father would be a tougher nut to crack than her mother. "Please, come in and make yourselves comfortable."

They did seem well impressed by his flat, and he thought it was promising that he overheard her mother say to Bridget, "He's as handsome as you said, and this place… lovely, and so _big_!"

He glanced to Bridget in time to catch her smiling proudly in his direction.

Daniel had never been so nervous in meeting the parents of the woman he was seeing—but the more he thought about it, the more he realised he hadn't actually met many parents in such a situation. Certainly, he had never been in this present situation; after all, he had never been married.

"So if you'll just come this way, supper is ready," Daniel said, holding his hand out in a gallant manner towards the dining area.

"Something smells lovely," Mrs Jones offered brightly. "Roast chicken?"

"Yes," said Daniel. "Sort of."

"We've done up a nice chicken salad," said Bridget.

"Chicken salad?" asked her father.

"Not that sort of chicken salad, Dad. You'll really like it."

Mr Jones looked sceptical. "All right, darling," he said, then his eyes flashed to Daniel. "If you say so."

Daniel was courteous to the extreme, pulling out Mrs Jones' chair then pushing it in for her when she took the seat. When he headed for the kitchen, Bridget made to follow him, but he said, "No, please. I'll get it. The corkscrew's on the table… why don't you go on and open the wine?"

"Okay."

They had, in advance, arranged the romaine and cooled roast chicken on the plates, so all Daniel had to do was add tomato, olives and shredded parmesan on the top; the dressing was on the table already. He carried out the first two plates and put them down before her parents, then returned with the other two.

"You'll want to give the dressing a stir with the whisk before pouring it," advised Daniel.

"He made it himself," said Bridget proudly.

Bridget's mother did as he suggested, poured the dressing, then had a bite. Her expression gave away her obvious enjoyment. After finishing the bite she said, "Quite good, Daniel! Quite good indeed." She smiled a little more genuinely, then had a sip of the wine.

His gaze shifted to Mr Jones, who was bringing a forkful of chicken, tomato slice and romaine up to eat. He too seemed pleased by what he tasted, though was far more restrained in his reaction and response. Bridget ate enthusiastically and effused praise on the dish.

"So, Mr Cleaver," Mr Jones said as he prepared to have another bite, "I was expecting this to be a family affair. Where are your parents?"

Daniel cleared his throat. "I haven't seen or spoken to my father in years, sir," he said.

"Oh, I _am_ sorry," said Mr Jones hastily. "I shouldn't have assumed."

"No need to apologise," said Daniel. "After the way he treated my mother and me… well, let's just say he isn't missed. As for my mother, I have every hope of bringing your daughter to meet her as soon as possible. She lives in Bath, but has been feeling poorly lately so I didn't ask her to try to make the trip." He reached for Bridget's hand with his. "She was quite thrilled to hear I'd found someone to settle down with."

Bridget beamed a smile back to him. "I could hear her over the phone from two feet away," she said. "I can't wait to meet her, too."

"That's a beautiful ring!" gushed her mother.

He looked down to where their hands met, and he smiled with pride. He had bought wedding bands for them at a jeweller's in Greece but he suspected it was his grandmother's ring about which Pam commented, white gold with ruby and diamonds. Bridget took off her rings in order to give said ring over to her mother.

"My mum gave that to me years ago for my prospective bride," said Daniel. "It was her mother's. I honestly was beginning to despair I'd ever give it to anyone."

"It is absolutely stunning. Colin, have a look—" She handed the ring to her husband. "—and tell me if this isn't the most stunning thing you've ever seen."

Mr Jones pulled his half-moon reading glasses from his shirt pocket, then examined it from every angle. "That's quite a ring, indeed." He raised his gaze to meet Daniel's; it was still too difficult to tell which way the wind was blowing. Colin handed the ring back to Bridget. "Quite a ring."

They were, within a very short time, through with their meal and the wine. Daniel thought her mother was warming up to him, particularly when she invited him to call her 'Pam', but he suspected that the closer parental tie was with her father. He needed to try a bit harder—he couldn't expect the pie to perform miracles.

Daniel reached over and placed his hand on Bridget's, waiting for her to finish what she was saying to her father before speaking. "Shall I clear the table," he asked, "and bring on dessert?"

Her smile was all the answer he needed; he did a little gracious bow, went around for the dirty plates, offering a smile to both elder Joneses while trying to assess their thoughts about him, then brought the plates into the kitchen. He put on the kettle while he cut the pie into eighths, put four slices onto plates, then arranged the plates on the large tray he'd pulled out of the cupboard and cleaned off, leaving room for the teapot and cups. As he waited for the kettle to come to a boil, he wondered if, in his absence, her parents were expressing their true feelings about him. Unpleasant, disapproving feelings.

_Who are you_, he thought as the first wisps of steam rose from the kettle, _and what have you done with the real Daniel Cleaver? When have you cared about impressing a girl's parents?_ But he knew she wasn't just any girl. This was Bridget. She did matter to him.

The water boiled at last, so he prepared the teapot, then, with a ridiculous pounding of his heart, he lifted the tray then pushed the kitchen door open with what he hoped was a confidently bright smile on his face, even as he felt slightly paranoid that all conversation immediately ceased upon the opening of the door.

When Mr Jones saw the tray, though, his eyes lit up with unabashed delight. _Perhaps_, thought Daniel, _I should place more faith in the pie._

"Lemon meringue," said Daniel. "Heard it was a great favourite of yours, sir."

He turned to his daughter. "Well, Daniel's certainly going out of his way to try to impress me," observed Mr Jones; Daniel could not help noticing the smirk hovering at the corner of his mouth, or the fact he'd used his first name.

_Hope springs eternal_, Daniel thought. _The ice is thawing._

Her mother strengthened this impression when she said, "You know, I would really love to host a little do for the two of you… in Grafton Underwood, for all of the people who knew Bridget growing up."

"Oh, Mum," began Bridget with mild horror, "that really isn't necessary—"

"Do you mean a reception?" interrupted Daniel. "I think that's a smashing idea." He briefly considered offering to foot the bill, but he did not wish to offend them. "I'd love to meet the hometown gang."

Pam smiled brightly, clapping her hands. "Oh, how _super_," she said. She then directed her gaze to her daughter, looking very smug. "And that smug Mark Darcy can see just what he's missed out on."

Daniel kept tight control on his features as Bridget frowned. He was afraid she might launch into a tirade about Mark, about what she thought she knew about their past, so he leaned and placed his hand on her knee, then said quietly, "Not now."

She turned and in an instant, her anger dissipated, a smile finding her lips. "Okay."

As dessert continued and headed towards conclusion, it became ever more obvious to Daniel that he would have to confess to Bridget the truth of the situation with Mark and Mark's ex-wife. The lie had been borne in the moment at dinner after the _Kafka's Motorbike_ book launch not just because he'd been keen to take her to bed—he couldn't lie; he had been keen—but because he was still truly ashamed of what had happened, how he had handled it afterwards, how Mark had handled it, and the pride that had kept them from mending fences in the intervening years.

Daniel rose to clear the table as Mrs Jones rambled on to Bridget about the things she would like to do for the reception. He took the tray into the kitchen, and to his surprise, Mr Jones came in bearing the teapot.

"Oh," Daniel said, accepting it. "More water?"

"Don't think so," he said, his eyes meeting the remainder of the pie. "We have the drive home yet, so we should be leaving soon. I just wanted a word in private before we go."

Daniel could not help feeling he ought to sit down, but remained where he was, nodding slightly. "All right."

"I just wanted to say I'm… well, you have made a wonderful effort today, one that hasn't gone unnoticed by myself and my wife. I'm willing to give you a chance."

Relief washed through him. "Thank you, sir."

Mr Jones held out his hand for a friendly shake, then said in a light tone and with a wink, "Hurt my daughter, however, and your innards will be on the menu next."

The humour with which this point was made caused him to chuckle a little, mostly at the pressure release. "Message received."

…

Bridget glanced to the kitchen door nervously as her mother nattered on about plans for the reception. She hardly heard a word; she was too busy listening for signs of raised voices.

The door swung open suddenly, startling her, but the fact that both her father and her husband—_So weird to think that!_ she mused—were smiling and laughing. She too smiled. "What's so funny?"

"Just giving your Daniel here a bit of hard time," said her father, his expression the picture of warmth, "and in exchange he packed up the rest of the pie." She noticed Daniel was looking equally happy. Colin Jones came nearer to his daughter, carrier bag in hand. "We've had a wonderful time, poppet, but we ought to go," he said.

"So soon?" Bridget said, leaning to kiss his cheek.

"The drive," supplied Daniel. Her mother rose from her seat.

"Now, Bridget, you just leave it all up to me," said Pam Jones, her face ruddy with her happiness, "and just let me know which of your friends here in London you'd like to come."

"I will do, Mum," she said, leaning to kiss her mother on the cheek even as she dreaded breaking the news to her friends; they were going to murder her where she stood. "Thank you for coming down today."

"Oh, it was our pleasure, darling," she said, throwing an almost coquettish look at Daniel.

They said their goodbyes, then walked her parents down to the door; Bridget couldn't help feeling especially smug at the success of the day. As they returned upstairs, her spirits remained buoyed as they cleared away the last of the items on the table.

Daniel, however, looked a little distracted, even a bit pensive. "Daniel? Something wrong? Did my dad say something rude to you?"

"Oh, not at all," he said, offering a wan smile. He held out his hand. "Come here, Bridget. I have a confession to make."

She smiled again, reached and took his hand. "What is it?" She saw the seriousness of his expression and became alarmed. "Daniel, you're scaring me a bit. You're not regretting this, are you?"

"No, no. That isn't it at all," he said, squeezing her hand. "Though I hope after you hear what I have to say, _you_ won't."

"Now you're really scaring me," she said, her voice shaking.

He clasped her hands in both of his. "It's about me," began Daniel, "and Mark Darcy."

Her head began to spin. What was he saying? "Did your fiancée leave because Mark slept with _you_?" she blurted.

Daniel burst out with a laugh. "Oh, you're priceless," he said, then turned serious again. "The situation with Mark—it isn't one I'm proud of, and I'm afraid I didn't tell you the truth. It's not fair and you should know."

"What is it then?" she asked; she was afraid to hear, but not knowing was worse.

"There wasn't a fiancée," he said. "It was me. I came between him and his wife, shortly after they married. I… slept with her."

She blinked in disbelief. Her dislike of Mark was formed in great part by Daniel's being cuckolded; to find that it had been the other way around completely…. "You had an affair with her?"

"No," he said. "It was nothing so lengthy as that. It was a mistake, one for which I have been paying dearly since that time—it cost me one of my best friends."

She felt a slight exasperation. "So why not apologise to him?"

"Mark will hear none of it," Daniel said. "Don't think I haven't tried. It's much easier for him to assume it was all my fault, and for him to slag me off. Him and his fucking pride."

She was very quiet as she weighed the options. She was shocked, upset and disappointed to learn he had been less than honest to her in the past; she couldn't lie to herself about that. However, he had chosen to come clean now, and that deserved consideration, particularly as he could have let the deception slide well into the future. While she wanted to move forward with a happy marriage, she needed more information. "Daniel," she said. "If you've lied about this, what else have you lied about?"

"I haven't lied," he said, too quickly (in her opinion) to be a fabrication. "Well, maybe once or twice I fibbed about having a meeting because I was terrified to meet your parents. But nothing that's a game-changer. I swear to you." His eyes were wide and his expression eager. He wanted, _needed_, to know if things were over before they'd begun.

Time to put his mind at ease. She squeezed his hand. "I know how hard it must have been to admit this to me, especially when I could have remained blissfully unaware for some time. I want you to know… I forgive you." She then pulled him into her arms.

"Oh, dearest wife, you are a queen amongst women," he said. "Thank you."

"That's what this is all about though, isn't it?" she asked, feeling quite like a Smug Married. "Forgiving and moving forward."

"Indeed," he said quietly. "I'm so grateful."

"But you'd better not—"

"No, no, of course not." He drew back, his face practically angelic. "Now, about your friends… any of them shaggable?" he said then winked.

She laughed drew back then kicked at him playfully. "Yes," she said. "Tom."

"Tom isn't a girl's name."

"I know."

At this, he laughed again and hugged her against him.

…

Daniel's relief was total and complete; never in his life had he felt quite so like he had dodged a bullet. And never had he wanted to change the subject so quickly.


	2. Chapter 2

**It's a Nice Day to Start Again**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 78,546  
Chapters: 11 + epilogue  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Chapter 2.

_Sat, 13 May_  
_The next weekend_

The glint and glitter in Natasha's dark brown eyes was terrifying.

"Oh, Mark, we _must_ go."

In her hand she held the invitation (surely it must have been a rush job for his mother to have it so quickly) to the reception that the Joneses were hosting on the occasion of their daughter's elopement. With both her eyes and his mother's boring into him, he could hardly say no. How petty and spiteful would he seem for him to refuse if he had been explicitly invited?

"Of course," he said coolly. He wondered if Natasha had a special sort of radar, knowing when his mother would be in town to visit, and dropping by to accept his invitations for him. He took the envelope and the invitation from her hand to review it.

The envelope had been addressed to "Mr Mark Darcy & Guest", and hand-delivered by his mother that morning, who'd apparently been helping Pam Jones with arrangements. The invitation itself read:

Mr and Mrs Colin Jones  
request the honour of your presence  
at a reception to celebrate  
the marriage of their only daughter  
Bridget  
to  
Mr Daniel Cleaver of London  
on Saturday, the 27th of May  
at The Bridge Hotel, Thrapston, Northamptonshire  
beginning at five in the evening.  
Buffet dinner served at six in the evening.  
RSVP regrets only.

The very bottom included a telephone number, quite likely the Jones'.

"Not registered anywhere, I guess," sniffed Natasha. "I suppose with the time crunch it wasn't possible, though not something I will overlook."

He ignored her obvious hint and thought only of logistics. No wonder the rush job; the reception was only two weeks away. With the hotel rooms at a premium for those without familial lodgings nearby, it was practical for him to stay overnight at his parents'. Undoubtedly, Natasha would wish to stay with him.

It was only after Natasha left (with effusive air-kisses to Elaine) that his mother spoke about the subject he knew she must have been pondering.

"So Bridget's wed the man who destroyed your marriage," she said quietly.

He turned and looked to her. "Yes," said Mark.

"I was hoping it might be someone with coincidentally the same name," she said, "though I suppose that's optimism for you." She pursed her lips. "Obviously I said nothing to Pam. What good would it have done? The damage, such as it is, is done."

"I never thought in a hundred years they would marry," said Mark.

His mother's shock was evident. "You _knew_ they were dating," she asked, "and you didn't warn her about him?"

He didn't say his attempt to do so had been thwarted, only replied, "What could I possibly have said? She either wouldn't have believed me, or thought I was just being spiteful."

Elaine pursed her lips once more. "If only you'd not been so crude on New Year's…"

He glanced down. The withering tone of her voice coupled with his own regret about that ill-fated day and served to silence him.

"You can stay the night at the house," she said in a much gentler tone, steering the subject away from those regrets; he must have looked pathetic. "And Natasha as well."

He nodded. "You can make up a separate room for her."

"Mark, we're more open-minded than that."

"Oh, I know," he said. "I must insist upon it."

She gave him a querulous look. "Mark," she asked, "are things serious between the two of you?"

"No, not serious," he replied. "Why?"

"I was just wondering," she began with a tone of foreboding, "why you don't seem to much like the woman you're seeing. I mean… she grates on my nerves a bit, but I can put up with her for your sake if you like her. Or love her."

He resisted glancing down or away.

"So do you?" she asked.

"I am not in love with her," Mark said.

"You don't love her," said Elaine. "Don't bring her."

"I can't back out of that now," he said. "I already said I would take her."

His mother laughed. "What if this were your own wedding day? Would you go through with it for propriety's sake?"

Mark bristled. "Of course not."

"I'm not so sure," said his mother. "Don't stay with someone you don't love, Mark. It never ends well."

Mark winced inwardly; he knew the truth of it, and so did she. "I'll end it after that weekend." He sighed. "To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I want to go anyway. I'm in no hurry to see Daniel again."

"You must go," she said, "if for no other reason to show your support for Bridget as a friend."

_So that you can be there for her when the worst happens_, he added mentally. "Bridget despises me."

"She does not," said Elaine confidently. "In fact, she asked specifically about you, to make sure you were invited."

_Curious_, he thought. "All right," he said. "I'll be there."

…

"She's not going to hate you."

Bridget looked sepulchral at this assurance. "She will."

He chuckled, trying to decide upon a pair of trousers. "Why on earth would my mother hate you, love?"

"Because…" she began. "She will."

He chuckled as he slipped into them. "That is not a very strong argument." He grabbed his shoes then sat upon the bed to put them on. "She'll _love_ you. In fact, I suspect she'll drop to her knees and thank God for three days when she meets you."

Bridget laughed, buttoning her blouse, then regarded him thoughtfully.

"Daniel," she began. "You're sure you don't want to invite your father?"

He looked down, away from his bride, at her question; it was not the first time she'd asked. He doubted he could ever convey to her why his father was not welcome, not when she had such a close relationship with her own. "Yes," he said in a sombre voice, "quite positive. Please, love. Don't ask again. Let's just get ready for dinner."

After a moment of two of silence, she sat down beside him on the bed, reached over and placed her hand on his own. "Sorry," she said softly. "How awful he must have been to you… you _and_ your mum."

The painful past with his father was not something he liked to dredge up. He said nothing in response. He wanted for her to drop the subject.

"Daniel," she continued. "I know I can never really understand how you feel, but…"

He patted her hand, then left it there.

"…it might help to talk about it."

"I don't like to talk about it," he admitted quietly. "It's best forgotten, left in the past."

"Obviously it still bothers you," she said. "Was he… abusive?"

He turned to face her, withdrawing his hand. "I said I did not like to talk about it," he said sharply. "Come on, we have a reservation to make."

She did not react to his shouting at her. Rather, she took his reaction, and rightfully so, to mean that she was on the right track. "Did he hurt your mother too?"

"Not me," he said quickly. "I would have preferred it was me over her." As he spoke he realised: he was talking about it, what he had vowed not to do. "Bridget, please—"

"So she kept him from hurting you," she said gently, touching his hand, then his arm.

He felt traitorous tears pricking at his eyes. "Yes," he admitted.

"And was he… did he drink?"

He squeezed his eyes closed; his memories of his father's intoxicated rages rushed back into the forefront of his memory. "He was a good man when he wasn't drunk."

"I take it," she said, "that was not common."

"It wasn't."

"Come here," she said, then let go of his hand to put her arm around him and hold him close. As she did, as she started to stroke his hair, he felt hot tears sliding down his cheeks. "Can't fathom the sort of pressure such a situation must put on a boy," she went on, "but I do know one thing: it wasn't your fault."

"It always felt like it—"

"Hush," she interrupted. "Do not blame yourself."

"But if not for me—"

"If not for you," said Bridget, "he probably would have hurt her anyway." After a pause, she added, "If not for you, your mother would have had _no one_ to comfort and love her when she needed it most."

Sitting there in her arms, in the silence that followed her obvious but profound statement, Daniel felt an odd sort of peace wash over him. She was right. The memories still hurt and always would, but having shared his burden lightened it considerably. He sputtered a little laugh. He'd always thought that to be a trite cliché.

"Something funny?"

"Nothing at all," he said. "Just feeling very pleased to have a wife." He turned to look at her. "Up for a little comfort-shag?"

She smiled, then laughed. "The burdens of being a wife."

She then kissed him gently, then more passionately; he was grateful they had been in mid-dress-for-dinner, because they needed only to fall back to the bed, move around a bit of clothing, before she was straddling him and they were crying out in their release.

If ever he loved a woman, Daniel loved Bridget, and he thought he might be able to do this marriage thing, after all.

"Oh, I do love this 'honeymoon' stage," she murmured into the hollow of his neck.

He chuckled. "Any excuse to have at it like bunnies at the drop of a hat is good in my book."

As he spoke, her stomach audibly rumbled. This reminded him that they were certainly going to miss their reservation unless they hustled.

"Daniel," she said, drawing her fingers across his chest, "I think I'm just going to phone in for pizza."

…

Mark could not take his eyes off of her. More specifically, he couldn't take his eyes off of the photograph of her (with Daniel as they exchanged vows), one that had been included with the invitation that had gone unnoticed before now. She was a vision of loveliness in her bridal dress, simple ivory silk with beaded décolletage, and a similarly beaded pearl headband. In her hand she held a few white roses. Daniel Cleaver looked pleased. More precisely, he looked as if he'd won the lottery and couldn't believe his good fortune.

His eyes went to her again, and he scolded himself. Was what he was feeling now actually true, or only a jealous regret due to having missed his own opportunity?

"I'm not jealous," he muttered to himself, but the truth was, he _did_ feel jealous. She was too good for that conniving bastard.

He saw two outcomes for this situation: he would stand by and observe Daniel from afar experiencing a happiness he did not deserve, or observe Bridget having her heart smashed to bits when the inevitable implosion occurred. Neither option seemed particularly appealing, and again he wished he'd done more, warned her off Daniel—

Even the thought of her consigning him to 'spiteful' would have been worth sparing her what he felt was inevitable misery.

…

_Mon, 16 May_

Things had immediately been different at work. Bridget had noticed this upon their return from Greece. Perpetua seemed insufferably smugger, infinitely kinder and much more respectful. "Didn't know you had it in you," Perpetua had said as she'd brought Bridget a cappuccino from downstairs.

"In me to do what?" she'd asked, gratefully accepting it.

"Tame Daniel," she'd answered with a smirk, then a wink.

She had also gotten many emails, phone calls and visits to her desk to congratulate her on her happy news. She had a pile of cards wishing Daniel and her well, to which she would glance with some frequency and smile. She loved that everyone at work had been so supportive.

Almost everyone, she would soon amend.

They were having lunch in Daniel's office when a commotion out on the main floor caught their attention. They both looked up just in time to see a tall, thin, bespectacled woman storm into Daniel's office, her chin-length brown hair swirling about her face.

"Daniel, tell me it's not true," the woman demanded, her eyes lit with anger. "They're telling me you've gotten married."

"Lara," said Daniel. "Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Bridget."

Lara's mouth dropped open. "You got bloody married and _didn't even tell me_? I thought we had something _special_!"

"Last year, when I was in New York, we did," he said calmly. "That's over now."

"But I thought—"

"Whatever you thought, it's wrong," he said; he looked upon this newcomer as if boring fire into her heart, and Bridget could not help wondering what his past with this stunning stranger was. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to let you know directly."

If Lara's jaw clenched any harder she would have thrown sparks from her teeth. She turned her gaze to Bridget. "Not sure if I should say 'congratulations' or 'my sympathies', Bridget," she said. "Oh, I know: 'Good luck, you'll need it.'" With that she swept out as quickly as she swept in.

"Well, that'll make the next week or so awkward as arse," said Daniel. "She's from the New York office."

"You _must_ have had something serious," said Bridget, her voice lilting with humour. "You remembered her name."

The way Daniel laughed, then reached to kiss her, made her wish sincerely that they were not presently at the office.

"That reminds me," Daniel said as he reclined back into his chair. "What have you decided?"

"What about?"

"Your flat."

Sadness washed over her. As much as she looked forward to living at Daniel's, a small part of her would miss the flat she'd called home for most of her adult life in London.

"I'll help you pack," he continued.

"It's not that," she said, then explained about what she had just been thinking. "Just a lot of memories there."

"Well if you like," he said with a chuckle, "we can keep it, especially the bed, as an alternate shag pad."

"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed, and only after the momentary flash of horror on his face did she realise he had been joking. "Oh," she added dejectedly.

"No, no," he said. "I asked. We can do it. I'll pay into it."

She grinned, then leaned forward and pecked a kiss on his lips. "That would be wonderful," she said, still bouncing in her seat. "I could set up a writing desk there too, if I need to get away for some peace and quiet."

"Yes, yes," he said. "It's _always_ a zoo around the flat."

"It's that Bosnian family," Bridget quipped.

…

_Sat, 27 May_

For only having been about three weeks in the planning, Mark was well impressed with the venue for the reception. He and Natasha had driven directly from London after an early lunch to his parents' to drop off their bags, then backtracked the short distance to Thrapston to arrive shortly after five. She had chosen to wear a very crisp, very expensive tailored pantsuit in a cool blue-grey; to Mark's eyes, its sole purpose was to disguise any hint of femininity behind straight lines and angles.

Upon entering the Ashton Room, he actually heard a sound of approval come from Natasha as she surveyed the room. "Quite lovely," she said.

"Mark, nice to see you."

Mark found himself face to face with Pam Jones, whose face was bright and shining in her pride for the day even as her voice was less than friendly. He smiled warmly in return, mindful of how rude he'd been on New Year's Day. "Thank you for having me. Mrs Jones, allow me to introduce you to Natasha Glenville, with whom I work in chambers. Natasha, this is the bride's mother, Mrs Pamela Jones."

"Charmed to meet you," said Natasha in her most saccharine voice as she took Mark's elbow; Mark could not very well object, though honestly would have loved to have pushed her away. "Simply wonderful, what they've done here."

"Thank you, Miss Glenville," said Mrs Jones, fairly frostily. "Lovely dress. Hope you enjoy yourself this evening." She turned her gaze to Mark. "Wait until you see her. She's the picture of radiance. Marriage suits her so well."

This pointed reminder of what he had himself squandered did not escape him.

"Unbelievable," muttered Natasha after they had wandered away from Bridget's mother. "She knows full well this is not a dress. And _you_! Why didn't you introduce me as your girlfriend?"

"You're not."

She gaped at him for a moment until she evidently realised it was unbecoming. "We've slept together."

"Twice," said Mark curtly, then saw Bridget's father. "We'll discuss this later."

He greeted Mr Jones with much the same warmness and in the same terms; he managed to disentangle himself from Natasha's clutches when she, in her petulance, made her excuses and left his side to speak to her friend Perpetua. "Congratulations, sir."

"Thank you, Mark," he said; he too was cool in tone. Mark could only think Bridget had told both of her parents how rude he had been to her at the Turkey Curry buffet—and that he deserved the rebuke.

With all sincerity, Mark said, extending his hand for a shake, "I wish your daughter every happiness."

His surprise was evident as he accepted the handshake. "Thank you," he said, nodding his head towards someone just outside of Mark's peripheral vision, "but you can give her your wishes directly."

Mark turned to see Bridget approaching. He didn't know where Daniel was, and frankly didn't care; he was rendered completely speechless by her appearance. Her golden hair was pulled up at the crown, tumbling down in gentle curls around her face and upon her shoulders. She wore a pale pink dress made of satin which was overlaid with a gauzy chiffon; the low V-shaped collar was made modest by a pane of delicate lace. The dress hugged her form to the waist, where it flared out to settle around her knees… and below that, very shapely legs that he could not help noticing.

It was soft and sweet yet quite alluring, almost sexy—and everything Natasha's outfit was not.

The sharp sound of his name brought him back to the present.

"I'm sorry, yes?" Mark asked, turning back to Mr Jones, who regarded him with an odd look, not irritated so much as puzzled, maybe amused.

"Did you hear a word of what I asked you?"

The collar of Mark's dress shirt suddenly became uncomfortably hot and tight. "I apologise, sir. I did not."

Mr Jones was definitely amused; the smirk gave it away. "Maybe now is not the time for me to be asking about work, anyway," he said. "Ah, here's Bridget now."

He faced her again to see she had come near to where they stood; she still bore a luminous smile. "Hello Mark," she said, surprising him by taking his hands in hers, surprising even more by getting up on her toes to peck him on the cheek, as if they were old friends whom had not seen each other in far too long. "I'm really very glad you could come."

"Thank you…" he began rather stupidly. "Thanks for having me."

She gave a little nod of her head. "If you don't mind," she said, "I'd like to have a word with you in private."

His brows raised slightly. "With me?" He could not imagine why.

"Yes," she said. "Is now a good time?"

He had no power to refuse. "Certainly."

"Great," she said, then looked away to her father; Mark had nearly forgotten that Mr Jones was still there. "Sorry to take away your chat buddy, Dad."

Mr Jones smiled. "No worries, poppet. I think I should mingle with the guests, anyway. See you in a few."

They went out into the foyer, then around the corner and ducked into an alcove by which there was not much foot traffic passing. She turned then looked up to him. "I'm just going to come straight to it," she said, her blue eyes almost mournful. "Daniel has told me that he's the one who broke up your marriage, which is… significantly different than the original story he gave me." He blinked in his surprise and moved to speak, but she held up her hand. "Yes, he lied to me, and yes, I know how that must seem, but the point I want to make is that I've misjudged you terribly, and I'm sorry. I can't excuse what Daniel did, but I have forgiven him, and I hope maybe someday you can too."

So great was his shock at this apology that it was many moments before it occurred to him that her expectant expression, her wide eyes gazing up at him, meant she wanted a response. "You were only working with the information you were given," he began, "and in that respect, _you_ have nothing to apologise for… but I do appreciate it, and your candour."

She too seemed speechless for a moment until she smiled, then burst out with a little laugh. "You must really be a barrister," she explained at his confused look. "Most people would've just said 'Thanks'."

At this, he couldn't help smiling too. "Well, for what it's worth, thanks."

"Great. Pleased that's sorted," she said, beaming another smile. "Suppose we should get back. Hope you've got room on your dance card for me later."

"For the bride, of course I do," Mark said. "Though won't that make Cleaver a bit angry?"

"Well, if it gets the two of you talking to one another… it'll be worth it." She placed her hand on his upper arm in a reassuring manner. "I know you were good friends once. I think he's a changed man. Perhaps you two can be friends again."

A lot would need to happen before he would consider trusting Daniel Cleaver again, and in all honesty, Mark did not believe the man had changed enough, but after coming to a truce with Bridget he was not about to say so at this juncture. Instead, he offered a smile and said, "We probably ought to return. I'm sure there are aunts and uncles eager to see you."

"I'm sort of afraid of that."

On that note they walked together back to the room in which the reception was taking place. A great cheer went up and it was not until the assembled began singing that he realised that the relatives who hadn't yet met Daniel assumed Bridget was entering with her new husband. Bridget flushed crimson and made hasty apologies then went over to where Daniel was standing by the cake. As she spoke to him, Daniel shot Mark a furrowed-brow look, then returned his attention to his bride, kissing her on full the mouth as the group of people turned towards the newlyweds to pay their due.

"They make a nice-looking couple, don't they, Mark?"

The voice that addressed him was familiar, but it wasn't until a split-second after he turned towards her that he realised who she was. "Mrs Cleaver, hello," he said.

She smiled. She did not look significantly different than from when he remembered her best, almost twenty years ago; still very attractive, fashionably styled hair, well-toned skin and in good shape. "My word, Mark, it's been years," she said, then reached to give him a hug, "and for heaven's sake, call me 'Patricia'—you've got to be nearing forty by now."

"Old habits die hard," he said with a mild chuckle as she drew back; having known her since prep school, he didn't feel he could in good conscience refer to her by her given name.

"So did you know about this… wedding thing?" she asked.

"I didn't," Mark admitted.

"Very odd," Patricia said. "I would have thought that if he'd told anyone it would've been _you_. So she's a nice girl, this Bridget? I've only met her once before today—"

She went on, but Mark's mind was stuck in a groove over the implications of what she'd said: Patricia Cleaver had no idea that he and her son had had a fatal falling-out. He did not have the heart to break it to her now, not when she was so happy.

"So, Mark, _do_ you know her well?"

"I… pardon me," he said, clearing his throat, hoping to cover for his inattention. "Not well, but well enough to know she's…" He paused, not knowing quite how to finish his thought, but could think only of Bridget out on the boat that weekend in the country, all golden sunshine and laughter. "Well, she's quite bright, funny, easy to talk to—"

"And something of a knockout," supplied Patricia with a grin.

"She is attractive, yes," admitted Mark.

Patricia laughed lightly. "Always the master of the understatement, you," she said.

"I don't mean to minimise anything," he hastily added. "She's a different kind of woman than Daniel's usual. Her attractiveness isn't merely superficial—rather, a reflection of how kind and sweet she is—something that will certainly outlast anything else. I think he sees that too."

He wondered if he had said too much, given her odd expression. "If she's good enough for you," said Patricia, "she's good enough for me. Well. So nice to see you again. Please keep in touch, Mark dearest." She hugged him again, then pecked him fondly on the cheek.

…

Not long after watching his bride enter the room on another man's arm, Daniel witnessed his mother hug Mark Darcy with affection. It might have bothered him more if his policy of non-disclosure to his mother hadn't abruptly seemed like such a bad idea.

"Daniel," came Bridget's voice, "I didn't know your mum and Mark Darcy knew each other."

"Yeah," he said, feeling a bit disconnected—had Darcy slipped up and told her? _Surely not_, he thought; _she still looks happy_. "Since prep school."

"I thought you only met in Cambridge," she said.

"Nope," he said, watching his mother; she was definitely still happy as a clam. He felt better, more relaxed. He then looked to her. "Have your friends made it yet?"

It was an effective way to redirect her attention. She beamed a smile all over again. "Oh, yes, got a text from the lot of them a little while ago; they're caravanning and last I heard they were checking in, will be down as soon as—Shazzer! Jude! Oh my God!"

At that Bridget sprinted away from him to embrace her foul-mouthed friend Sharon, then the smaller brunette, Jude; Bridget then dragged the lot of them, five in all, over to where he stood. He had met Sharon and Jude before (hence his knowledge of the former's spicy vocabulary), but not Tom, nor had he met Magda and Jeremy. Tom was looking at him appreciatively, which flattered him; the longer he chatted with Magda and Jude the more they seemed to warm to him, and he, to them. Magda's husband, however, said very little and kept his gaze on Daniel a great deal, almost as if he were sizing him up.

"So Daniel," said Magda, "small world: my Jeremy here is actually partners in chambers with Mark Darcy, whom I understand you know from uni! Isn't that a strange coincidence, considering how long Bee and I have been friends, and how long—?"

"Very strange," interrupted Daniel. What he thought stranger still was that his old friend and his new wife had never met before this year; frankly, though, he was getting a little sick of Mark Darcy cropping up everywhere. "My apologies," Daniel said quickly. "I'm clearly in need of another drink. Come, join me."

…

Everything about the day was utter perfection. Bridget got to talk to Daniel's mum, who truly did not think badly of her new daughter-in-law; she enjoyed being fawned over by relatives and friends; she ate from the delicious buffet until she swore she was testing the structural integrity of the seams of her dress, and drank enough to get a pleasant buzz, but not so much that she was pissed; they cut the cake and had it with tea and coffee; she danced with her husband, her father (to the dismay of her mother's mascara), and even Tom and Jeremy while somehow managing to deftly avoid Geoffrey Alconbury—

As she sipped at a glass of water as her father thanked everyone for coming, she spotted a cluster of her friends and she was reminded that she had one dance yet promised before the night was through.

"Bridge." It was Daniel, sliding his hand around her waist before she'd had a chance to move. "Have we made a decent enough appearance yet?"

"Daniel, don't be like that. It's my mum's wildest dream come true—"

"And not yours?"

"Shush," she said. "Actually, I'm having a pretty great time, too. Aren't you?"

"Of course, love," he said. "But it's all so wearing—love her, but that Una woman and your mum… they are prize talkers."

It was one thing to think unkind thoughts about her mum and Una, but another altogether to hear Daniel say them. She frowned.

"You know what I mean," Daniel added penitently. "I really did not need to know about Mavis Enderbury's prize hydrangea."

"Yes, I know what you mean," she said tersely, "but you know, the bridal suite is not going anywhere… and it's not like we haven't already… well, you know. Anyway. I'm not done having fun yet."

He offered an impish smile, then bent to kiss her. "A thousand pardons, love. You go on having fun. Tom, Shaz and I are going to have a fag outside."

She watched him leave, then made her way over to where Magda, Jude and Jeremy were standing, happily chatting with Mark Darcy, who looked a bit like he was a million miles away. She approached with a smile.

"Bridge!" said Jude.

…

The sharp sound of the bride's name snapped Mark to attention from his reverie about the day, the surprise and revelation that Jeremy's wife was a long-time friend of Bridget's, as was Jude Russell, the head of investments at his bank. Automatically his gaze went directly to Bridget.

"Glad to see you're all having a good time," Bridget said. "I was just coming by to see—"

"Yes, of course," Mark said, a bit more abruptly than he intended. "Your promised dance." He held his hand out just as the music began to play once more.

As chance would have it, the song that came on was one for which he'd a soft spot for some time, not that he was very familiar with popular music, but upon hearing it once while driving in his car, he'd made certain to take down the artist and title.

"Thanks again for inviting me," Mark said, taking the lead. "I wasn't sure about coming but…"

"I'm glad that you did. Chance to clear the air." She smiled. "Where's your date?"

He hadn't thought of Natasha since she'd sat stonily beside him while they ate the buffet dinner. He certainly hadn't seen her again. He realised he didn't really care. "No idea. I should have just come alone."

"Ouch," she said, which made him chuckle. "Hope you're ending it."

"Oh, we're not together," he said. "The problem is that she disagrees with my assessment."

At this comment she tossed her head back and laughed, the waves of her tresses sliding along her shoulders. "Oh, Mark, that's _terrible_," she said. "You're certainly sending mixed messages bringing her to a _wedding_."

"Reception," he said quickly.

"If you want to split hairs," she said with a grin.

She was absolutely right, of course; what had he been thinking, feeding Natasha's mania in this way? What must Bridget have thought of him for it?

"Don't worry, it's not like you punch kittens in your free time," she said. Feigning mock horror, she asked, "Or do you? You look sort of mortified."

He relaxed into a smile again.

"You dance like your father," she said unexpectedly.

"My father?" he asked.

"Yes, I danced with him earlier. Very kind, very gentlemanly. Wished me every happiness."

"That sounds very much like him." Mark wondered if his father knew of Daniel's involvement in the breaking up of his marriage and had just been tactful, or if, likelier the case, his mother had just kept her husband in the dark on details. Her words also made him realise that he had not actually given her his own congratulations. "You know, I wish you every happiness, too."

After a moment, she said, "It's very kind of you to say, given… well. You know."

"Yes," he replied, then added, "and I do mean it."

A comfortable silence enveloped them as they carried on dancing. The soft piano and sentimental lyrics of the song penetrated into his head; with the scent of her light, lovely floral perfume and the feel of her dancing in his arms, swaying to the music with him, he knew his memory of this dance, for good or ill, would rival the memory of her in the rowboat out on the water in the country…

…on the day before she was married to Daniel Cleaver.

The song ended, and she drew back with a smile. "Good luck," she said.

He drew his brows together.

"With your date," she explained.

He turned to follow her gaze. Natasha stared back with a cold glare, clearly furious. "Right."

She patted his arm again. "Thanks for the dance."

As he watched her drift away towards Daniel—who was also staring daggers at him—the song lyrics popped unbidden in his head. He cursed himself for thinking it, because it was entirely too ridiculous, based on nothing more than a few meetings and not even enough conversation to fill a single sheet of paper, yet there it was, dominating his thoughts:

_I've been searching a long time _  
_For someone exactly like you_

…

"Why were you dancing with him?"

"I knew you'd ask that," she said, with an almost playful tone of voice. "He's just a friend, Daniel. Actually, at this point, an acquaintance. I've barely even seen him outside of your company."

Daniel took a calming breath. She was right. "Sorry." He reached up and stroked her cheek gently.

She patted his hand. "Are you jealous?"

"Jealous? Me? No." He was, however, irrationally afraid of turnabout; that Mark Darcy would somehow exact revenge for what Daniel had done by sleeping with Bridget. Of this his new wife would never know. He slipped his arm about her waist. "Today's been a terrific success, wouldn't you say?"

She smiled warmly, a far-off look in her eyes. "Very nice. A dream come true."

"And things are winding down; the sun is setting on this wonderful day. Why don't we start to say our goodnights, then take advantage of that wonderful bridal suite? Have a little more champagne… and I'm pretty sure there are some chocolates waiting for you."

That elicited a broad smile. "I suppose now it's decent."

After a warm exchange with their guests, Bridget's parents and Daniel's mother, they headed out of the room to light round of applause and headed up the stairs. "I insist in carrying you over the threshold," Daniel said as he opened the door.

She giggled, but teased, "We've done that."

"Let's try a different position, then," he said, then bent to gather her up over his shoulder. She shrieked in surprise, then laughed as he took her into the room, kicked the door closed and threw her down to land on her backside on the duvet of the very posh, very cushy four-poster bed.

She did look utterly ravishing sitting there amongst the fluff and satin of her dress, her coiffure slightly mussed from his playfully rough handling, her eyes sparkling as she leaned back on her hands. _Oh, Cleaver_, he thought; _do not fuck this up._

…

Natasha didn't say a word to him, not until they had reached the car and were on the way to his parents' house, and even then, only in response to Mark's speaking:

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" she snapped. "Oh, right. Bringing me with you as a date then completely ignoring me to talk to Jeremy and his eternally pregnant cow of a wife, not to mention fawn a bit excessively over the bride."

The possibility of the transparency of his thoughts while dancing with Bridget took him by surprise, but he retained his composure. "I remind you, Natasha, that you're the one who invited yourself to come."

"You didn't brook any argument."

He remembered his mother's comment. "Perhaps I should have. I'm afraid my constant agreeing to your invitations has given you the wrong impression."

"It's not my fault," she said in an icy tone, "if you don't have the fucking backbone to say no."

"You're right, and I'm sorry." He flicked on the indicator. "It won't happen again."

They drove in silence and when he glanced towards her, he realised she looked uncharacteristically sad and vulnerable. She noticed him looking, and rather than pretend she hadn't had a moment of weakness, she acknowledged her state: "I don't know what I can do. What I've done wrong. Why you don't want me."

He didn't know what to say to that, but he grasped the opportunity to make himself crystal clear. "I'm sorry. You are a valuable friend and ally, but I don't love you."

After a moment's silence she exhaled roughly and said in a flat tone of voice, "I never said anything about love, so stop fucking apologising, already."

He thought enough had been said, so he chose not to respond.

As they approached the drive she said curtly, "I think I must insist on heading back to London tonight."

There was a moment, a very short moment, during which he considered capitulating. Instead, though, he found himself saying, "I'd be happy to take you to the train station."

She did not say anything until he rolled to a stop near the front door. "I'll get my bag from the foyer, if you'll let me in for it."

He was grateful for the foresight to have asked his mother to make up a room for her, but was equally thankful he had not informed her of it in advance.


	3. Chapter 3

**It's a Nice Day to Start Again**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 78,546  
Chapters: 11 + epilogue  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Chapter 3.

_Weds, 28 Jun_

"She's had the baby."

In the kitchen of his home, still scooping coarse-ground coffee into his cafetière, Mark had answered his phone when it rang while he was still half-groggy. The excited voice did not register with him. "Pardon?" he said.

"Magda, Mark. This morning. It's another boy, and he's perfect."

Of course. He recalled seeing Magda at the reception in Thrapston, looking lovely yet uncomfortable even in her flattest, most comfortable shoes. "Excellent news, Jeremy. Congratulations."

"Thanks," he said, his weariness evident through his happiness. "Mags and I have been talking, and… well, don't have to answer right away, but… we'd love it for you to be the baby's godfather."

Mark was taken aback. He had never been asked to take on such a role before, but he had not known anyone else close to him who'd had a child, and Jeremy's other children had been born before their acquaintance had begun. "I'm honoured, Jeremy, and flattered."

"Take that to be a yes. Fantastic. You're an impeccable role model, Mark."

Mark doubted that very much to be true, but thanked him for saying so anyway.

"It's true, Mark. You're practically a monk," said Jeremy, but before Mark had a chance to protest, he heard Jeremy yawn. "Sorry, mate. Don't think I'll be down in chambers today. Going to try to catch some shuteye."

"Probably for the best," said Mark. "Send my best to Magda."

"I'll do so. You'll have to come and meet him in a few days when they're home."

Mark agreed before putting the phone down, a residual smile on his face. Though he wanted children someday, he had not thought much about himself in an actual fatherly role; father-by-proxy might do very well as a start.

_Sat, 1 Jul_

With his mother's guidance (whose advice was prefaced with the caveat that it had been some time since she'd had interaction with a new-born), Mark chose a tiny one-piece sleeper set to bring with him in meeting the little boy. He had been invited to arrive for lunch—"If you can stand me fixing you a meal," Jeremy had said with a laugh—so shortly after noon he rapped upon the front door of Magda and Jeremy's residence.

The door came open, momentarily surprising him. It was Bridget, looking fresh and lovely in a light floral dress. "Hi!" she said with a smile. "Here to see the baby?"

"Hi," he said, still a bit stunned. "And lunch."

"Yeah. Me too," she said, stepping aside to let him in.

It dawned on him at that moment why she'd been invited to lunch as well. "Godmother?"

She smiled proudly. "Yes. My second go. I'm Constance's godmum too."

"Jeremy's asked me to be the godfather."

"Yeah, they told me. Come on, let's introduce you to the little man."

He thought about Jeremy calling him a 'good role model' for the little boy, and briefly wondered with some amusement if they had asked her for the same reason.

They passed through a room where Magda and Jeremy's four-year-old daughter Constance and three-year-old son Harry sat colouring as they watched a video on the television. "Hi Constance, hi Harry," said Mark as they passed through.

"Hi," they said in unison.

"What do you think about having a new brother?" Mark asked.

"Yay!" said Harry, throwing his arms up into the air, his crayon escaping his grasp; Bridget retrieved it for him.

Constance screwed up a face. "I wanted a sister."

"It's a sensitive subject," cautioned Bridget quietly, then they continued on through the room and up the stairs to the nursery, which had the curtains closed for a modicum of dimness on the sunny day.

Magda sat on a rocking chair while Jeremy hovered over the baby, changing his nappy. Magda smiled wanly. "Not the best-timed entrance for elegance," she said.

"Ah, no one really cares about that," said Bridget, reaching to peck a supportive kiss on the top of Magda's head. "You look great and the baby has an adorable bum."

"The kids still behaving?"

"Hour three of videos."

"All Pingu?"

"Of course."

"Here we are, Mark. William John."

Mark turned and was presented with a small bundle of swaddled baby, small, pink, wide dark eyes looking up in that unfocused way that babies do. Gingerly he took the child into his arm; he was a little afraid he might hold the child incorrectly or otherwise do something wrong, but it surprised him how naturally the posture came to him.

"Aw, you're a pro already," cooed Magda.

"Hardly," murmured Mark, brushing his comparatively oversized forefinger against the baby's hand, marvelling at the tiny fingers, perfectly formed and grasping with surprising strength. "He seems very calm and quiet."

"Not so calm at three in the morning, but so far, better than Constance or Harry ever was, so I'm hopeful," said Magda.

"Here, Mark brought this," said Bridget, who handed over to Magda the package he'd brought. He hadn't even remembered her relieving him of the gift.

Mark turned in time to see her slipping the building-block-patterned wrapping paper off. "Oh, Mark, thank you," she said. "Truly, I can't have enough of these."

He was proud, and offered Magda a smile. "You're very welcome."

She set the gift down then held out her hands. "It's time for a feeding and a nap. I'll take care of the feeding. You go down—I'll be there once I have him settled in. Don't wait for me to start eating."

He handed the baby over to Magda, then turned to Jeremy and Bridget before following them out of the room.

"You have much experience with babies?" asked Bridget as they went downstairs.

Mark knew she was addressing him. "None at all."

"I don't either, actually," she said. "Just Constance and Harry really, when I'm visiting here. No siblings so no nieces or nephews, and my other friends don't have any kids."

He did not quite know how to respond to that, so he was thankful that they arrived back to the first floor. "Come on, you two," said Jeremy to his other children as he paused the video they were watching. "Time for lunch."

"I'm not hungry," said Harry.

"He's hungry," confided Bridget. "He'll devour his alphabetti spaghetti as soon as it's put down in front of him."

"I hope that isn't what we're having," joked Mark, causing Bridget to laugh as she took Constance's hand for the walk to the dining room.

"Ah, they're actually not bad," she said as she pulled out the chair for Constance, then helped her up into the booster seat; "Don't knock 'em 'til you've tried 'em."

Jeremy served the children first—Mark observed Bridget had been correct with regards to Harry, who dove voraciously into his bowl with his spoon—before bringing out their own lunch, spaghetti with tomato sauce and heaps of parmesan.

"Daddy, I want some cheese on mine," said Constance. He obliged and sprinkled parmesan on hers.

"So we'll probably book the church within the month," said Jeremy as he sipped at his red. "Any prior weekend engagements either of you have booked already?"

"I'll have to check my diary," said Bridget, "but I don't think so. Daniel's off to New York next week for a couple of weeks."

Mark's gaze fell upon her ring. He had almost forgotten about the marriage until she'd mentioned his name. "I have nothing that can't be moved if needed."

"Great," said Jeremy with a proud smile. Mark couldn't help noticing how tired he looked, too. "I'll let you know when I've got something firm."

"If there's anything I can do, just let me know," piped up Bridget.

"A spa day wouldn't go wrong." Mark turned to see Magda come in. In the afternoon light, the paleness of her skin and the dark circles under her eyes were even more stark.

"Come on and eat, darling," Jeremy said, "then I'm going to have to insist you have a nap too."

"I will offer no resistance," she said, then dug into her pasta. After savouring a bite then swallowing, she turned her gaze towards her guests. "I hope you two don't mind. First week's always the hardest on me, getting back into the new-born groove."

"It's all right," said Bridget. "And we shall have to do that spa day thing as soon as possible."

Magda's smile was broader than before. "Thanks, Bee."

"Mummy's got a cake," offered Constance out of the blue; she was finished with her lunch and was clearly angling for some of this cake.

"When the grownups are done you can have cake, Constance," said Magda. "Be patient."

She sat back and folded her arms with a pout.

"We can't all be as good and as thorough at finishing our lunch up as you, Constance," said Bridget, glancing up to the little girl from her own lunch. "No need to be so glum and grumpy when you'll get to pick your piece of cake first."

Reluctantly she began to smile. "Oooh. The one with the big rose on it?"

Bridget flashed her eyes towards Magda and Jeremy, who nodded slightly. "Of course you can," said Bridget.

With the promise of cake, Constance and Harry both waited patiently until the adults finished their food, which did not take much longer. Jeremy cleared the table then went into the kitchen to put on the tea and get the cake.

"So how strange is it that we should have friends in common and never know it?" Bridget said, sipping her wine, then setting it down after making a sour face. "Ugh, good wine," she commented as she pushed it away, "but I just can't drink any more."

"I have to admit, I was quite surprised to see Jeremy and Magda at your reception," Mark said. "Not to mention Ms Russell from Brightlings."

Bridge chuckled. "You know Jude too?"

"She helped untangle some investment difficulties a few months ago, but I doubt she remembers me."

"Wow. It really is a small world."

With that Constance and Harry began to sing a song that Mark recognised as something from the Disney repertoire.

"Please, please, none of that," said Magda in a long-suffering voice.

"Sorry," said Bridget. "Didn't mean to set them off."

"It's all right."

Jeremy came in with cake and milk for the children. Constance looked insufferably pleased with her slice, replete with its sugary roses. Jeremy then walked away with a quick, "Back in a tick."

Addressing Mark, Bridget continued, "I think it's also weird that our parents were such close friends yet we never knew each other as children."

"We'll always have the paddling pool," he said with a grin.

"The what? _The what_?" asked Magda, smiling madly, perking up considerably. "You played together in a paddling pool?"

To Mark's surprise, Bridget flushed pink. "I thought my mum was making that up," she said sheepishly.

"I can attest to its truth," Mark said. "I have seen the video."

"Oh, God," said Bridget, though she was chuckling.

"Video?" asked Magda. "How old—?"

"Home movies," Mark corrected. "I was eight. She was four."

"Too adorable. I want to see."

"Auntie Bee was my age before?" piped in Constance, clearly shocked at the revelation.

This sent Bridget and Magda into peals of giggles. Little Harry started laughing too, though it wasn't clear that he got the joke. "Yes, Constance," said Mark with a smile. "We were all your age before."

"All right, tea and cake." It was Jeremy, returned with tray of food. "What's so funny?"

"We have blown your daughter's mind by letting her in on the fact that we were all four once," said Bridget. With a glance towards Mark, she added, "Though I'm not so sure about Mark. I'm pretty sure he was born a fully formed barrister." She gave him a little wink though, indicating she was teasing. This made Magda laugh again.

"Eat your cake before I serve you with an injunction," Mark said in a mock stern tone, winking back.

She stuck out her tongue at him then chuckled, taking her cake and a cup of tea. This action of hers made him burst out with a laugh.

The cake was a delicious chocolate with raspberry between the layers, and a luscious buttercream icing. All in all it was a bit on the sweet side, but the tea, standard black, helped offset that. Praise went up on all sides. Jeremy advised the cake came from a nearby patisserie, though neither Mark nor Bridget was surprised by this news; it was clearly not home-baked, and they'd hardly had the spare time.

Mark was pouring himself a little more tea when a loud clink caught his attention. He turned and saw Bridget had set her fork down, or rather, had dropped it against the plate. She looked a little pale.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She nodded. "Too much cake too quickly, I think. And on top of an already sour stomach—no offense, lunch was terrific. It's just that I've just been a bit off my feed lately."

"I'll eat the rest of yours, Auntie Bee," offered Constance helpfully.

"I hope you aren't coming down with something," Magda said stiffly.

"No, I don't think so," she said. "Think it's just work stress. I would never have come if I thought I was sick."

Magda relaxed visibly. "Can we get you anything?"

She shook her head. "It'll pass in a moment."

Within a few moments it became clear that Magda was unable to keep her eyes open any longer. She too seemed to accept this and stood, bent to give Bridget and Mark goodbye pecks to the cheek. "Thanks for coming by," she said. "Hope next time I see you I'm a little more lively."

"Totally understandable," said Bridget. "Rest while you can."

After Magda went upstairs, Jeremy asked them if they wanted more tea. Observing his tired smile, Bridget asked, "Do you want a lie down, too? We can watch the children for a bit." She looked to Mark. "I mean I could. I don't want to speak for you, Mark."

"No, I'd be pleased to help watch them," he said, "though are you sure you're up for it?" She pursed her lips. He realised his misstep immediately. "I mean—you're still pale and a bit peaked."

"I'm fine," she insisted. "Truly. Jeremy, if you want to have a lie down, we can watch them."

"If you're sure… don't let me sleep more than an hour."

"I think we can manage that."

Constance and Harry were as they'd been before, in front of the telly and colouring. Mark was grateful they seemed to be content to do so. Mark found the video itself to be insipid and repetitious, but he caught Bridget watching as if interested.

"Favourite of yours?" he asked.

The colour returned to her cheeks; he realised she was a bit embarrassed. She turned her gaze towards him. "I just happen to think he's a cute little penguin," she said. "It's a good thing Magda can put this on and leave them here, because I'd go mental listening to this again and again."

"We are a bit outside the target age range."

She smiled. "Honestly, I'm not sure how _they_ can watch the same thing so many times. I can practically recite the dialogue, and I haven't seen it nearly as often as they have."

He smiled. "This is the first time I've seen this," he confessed. "I have no idea what's going on."

"It doesn't really matter," she whispered. "I suspect every episode is exactly the same. It's not bloody Dostoevsky."

This brought up a laugh so unexpected it startled him a bit; the children were torn from their tasks to stare at him as if he were mad.

"Sorry," said Bridget.

"No, please don't apologise," he said. "I will surely enjoy reading Dostoevsky more now thinking of a clay penguin and his friends."

She chuckled, then rested back against the sofa. Constance relinquished her crayon and climbed up to sit next to her. "Will you do my hair in plaits?" she asked.

"Sure," said Bridget, although he was not sure the little girl's hair was actually long enough to plait. She combed through the fine ginger locks with her fingers, then started making sections into braids.

Constance beamed with pride. "I'm going to look like a pretty princess!"

He grinned as he watched Bridget do one tiny plait after another. While doing the fifth or sixth, her pace slowed down until she stopped altogether. "Oh," she said, her hands dropping to her sides before she launched herself up and off of the sofa, then dashed out of the room.

Mark shared a brief look with Constance before he said, "Keep Pingu company," then rose to follow Bridget. He suspected she had headed to the loo, and the light inside and the closed door confirmed this suspicion… as did the troubling sounds from within. He called out her name.

He was met with silence.

"Are you all right?" he said, his concern growing.

In a moment the door opened and she stood there, pale and trembling. She nodded in a most unconvincing manner.

He held out his hand. "Come on, you need to sit down. Let me help you."

She accepted the assistance without protest. He put his arm around her waist as she walked. "What happened?"

"Made it just in time," she said, then mimed the motion of being sick.

"I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "Don't be sorry. I did it to myself with all that cake."

"Auntie Bee! Are you okay? Are you all right?"

This from Constance and Harry, whose worried little faces peered up from below.

"She's okay," said Mark. "Let us through so she can sit down."

She chuckled a little as she took a seat on the sofa again. "I'm not on death's door, just a bit queasy."

Mark sat beside her. "Shall I get you some water? Maybe milk?"

"Water might be nice."

"I'll get it!" piped up Constance, shooting towards the kitchen.

"Constance, wait for Mark," Bridget called after her. "You'd better go before she sends ice all over the floor."

"Ice?"

"Ice maker on fridge front."

"Oh."

He stood, releasing her hand. He hadn't even realised he'd taken it, and he felt himself flush in embarrassment.

Constance had not in fact sent cubes of ice to skittering across the floor. She was in the process of reaching up on tiptoes towards a toddler sipping cup that sat on the countertop, but when Mark entered the kitchen she turned and flashed a grateful look at him, her crazy plaits swinging with the motion of her head. "I can't get to it," she said plaintively.

"I'll get Br—I mean, Auntie Bee a regular glass." He strode up to the counter, going for the cupboard where he recalled the glasses were.

"The water's on the door of the 'frigerator," said Constance.

"So it is," he said.

"There's ice, too."

"So I've heard. Do you think she wants ice?"

She nodded vigorously.

He pushed in the dispenser for some ice, then moved the glass over for some chilled water. "Can I carry it?"

"I'm sure you can," he said, "but I think I'd better."

She nodded.

When he went back into the lounge he found Harry there alone. "She went to the toilet again."

This was becoming alarming. "Constance, Harry, I'm going to set this glass down and I want you to watch it, but stay away from it, so that when Auntie Bee comes back it's there for her. No fighting, okay?"

They nodded and he returned to the loo door. He could only hope he would not return to the lounge to find the glass on its side and its contents on the floor. He knocked gently. "Are you okay in there?"

"Mm-hm. Just felt a bit queasy again so I thought it might be best to come back in here until it passed. I wouldn't want to lose the rest of my lunch on the pristine white carpet."

Despite the situation he chuckled to himself. "Do you need company?"

She didn't respond, and he felt immediately foolish for asking; why would she want someone in there if she got sick again?

"Never mind," he said quickly. "I should keep an eye on the children."

"Okay."

He returned to where Constance and Harry were faced off over the glass of water. He smiled. "Well done."

They returned the smile proudly. He realised that despite her discomfort, the afternoon really had been one of the nicest in recent memory, and it was in no small part thanks to Bridget.

…

Being poised over a porcelain bowl was not a particularly desirable posture, not late on a Saturday night, and certainly not in the middle of the afternoon at her friend's house. At least with drinking she had a reason to feel so badly; this she could not really explain. She was certain she was not ill, and she'd eaten what everyone else had, so food poisoning seemed highly unlikely. The waves of nausea came and went, until finally it settled to the point where she felt capable of standing again as best as she could on shaky legs.

She turned to the sink and made herself at home by pouring a bit of minty mouthwash with which to rinse into a tiny paper cup. She then combed down her hair with her fingers before taking a good look at herself in the mirror. She'd looked better, but she had just been sick, just as she had been a couple of mornings ago, and—

"No," she said quietly to herself. "It isn't possible."

Even as she said it, she wondered if it might be. Even though they were using protection, it was always a possibility that an accident could happen. The thought that she might actually be pregnant both terrified and thrilled her—but the more she thought about it, the more she decided it couldn't be. _It's just wishful thinking to think I could have got a husband and a baby within three months._

Hopes adequately dashed, she left the loo.

"Auntie Bee! Come have your water!"

It was Harry, looking very eager.

"Are you feeling better?" Mark asked, concern written across his features.

"Yes, thanks very much." She sat again then drank greedily from her glass.

"Auntie Bee is sick! Let's play doctor!"

She leaned back, groaning a little. She saw Mark open his mouth to speak but he stopped when she smiled and said in a dramatically overwrought tone, "Oh, whatever can be the matter with me? I need a nurse!"

The children chirped with glee and ran over to the other side of the lounge, where Constance, with near-preternatural speed, produced a toy doctor's bag. With a very serious expression on her face, Constance pulled out the toy stethoscope and put it on as if she'd been practising medicine for decades; it was all Bridget could do not to laugh.

As this unfolded, Bridget noticed Mark had relaxed considerably.

Harry produced the toy syringe and, after climbing up on to the sofa, pretended to give her a shot in the middle of her forehead. At this she did laugh out loud. "That isn't really where shots go."

There was much fussing over the patient and giggling by the children—their happy spirits helped to further lift hers—and it was in the middle of this that Jeremy came into the room.

"Ah, I see they got you," said Jeremy with a grin.

"Hope we weren't too noisy," said Bridget. "Did you have a sufficient lie-down?"

He nodded. "Out like a light. I admit I did hear the kids giggling, but when I looked at the clock I realised it had almost been an hour and a half, so I figured I'd come and relieve you."

"Good grief," said Mark. "I'd completely lost track of time." She hoped Mark would not mention the sick episode, and shot a glance to him that he seemed to interpret correctly. "I ought to head home. Bridget, do you need a lift?"

She had intended on phoning for a taxi, but a lift home would do just as well. She nodded. "That'd be great, thanks."

They said their goodbyes; Bridget gathered up her handbag and within a few minutes they were on their way.

"You'll need to point me in the right direction," he said, slipping on a pair of stylish, sleek sunglasses, then engaging the engine. The beautifully bright and sunny June day necessitated the use of eye protection, to be sure, but she realised (somewhat guiltily) that they also added to his handsomeness, and she turned to don her own. "I recall something about your living near to me."

"Oh," she said, realising that he was referring to his mother's comment on New Year's just before his horrible insult. "Actually…."

"Of course," he said abruptly. "You would have gone to live at Daniel's. Still at Clink Wharf?"

"Yeah," she said, momentarily stunned at this small reminder that they had once in fact been close friends. "He's out, if you're worried about that."

"I wasn't," he said, but the way he went silent made her think that perhaps he was a little. _Of course_, she thought, _he is concentrating on driving. Perhaps I'm reading too much into it._

She decided to try to engage him in a bit more conversation. "Have you ever been a godfather before?"

"No, but I want children of my own someday, and I suppose it's good practise," he said. After a moment, he added, "Being a godfather's not difficult, is it?" The edge of worry in his voice made her chuckle.

"Not at all. Go up, say some words about being a good example for the kid, end of it," she said. "Then of course it's important to be a good example for the kid. No hanging around pissed out of your mind slinging vulgarities, as you well know I am capable of doing."

At this he laughed quietly. "I really thought by now I'd've had them," he said in a low voice, almost as if he hadn't meant to say it out loud at all. He cleared his throat. "I'm glad to see you're all right," he said. "I mean, you are all right, aren't you?"

His statement initially caught her off guard not only because of the change of subject from the candid admission, but because it seemed like he was making a broad moral statement about her… but then she realised he was referring to the episode of sick at the house. "I'm just fine. Don't know what came over me. No need to worry."

The car rolled to a stop at a red light, and he turned to look at her. "I'm glad to hear." As it switched to green, he resumed driving, but the smile remained on his face.

Hers too, she realised. After a bad start, she was glad to have a friend in Mark Darcy. "And you're all right?"

"Pardon?" he asked.

"Well, after breaking up with Natasha."

He gave her a quick smile. "I'm just fine," he said. "It's not like we were emotionally involved. I feel a bit freer, to be honest. I realise now how manipulated I'd become."

"Best to realise that fuckwittage is occurring sooner rather than later," she said.

This made him laugh again. "I never would have thought of it in terms like that," he explained, still grinning. "But you're right."

…

Daniel was glad for the meeting to conclude early, even though he wasn't sure his wife would be back from her lunch with Magda. _My wife_, he thought; it was a phrase he never thought he would be using in his lifetime. After parking his car and fiddling with his keys for the right one for the house, he approached the front door; as he opened it and entered, a sleek silver sedan turned the corner and paused near the building. He realised that the driver of that car was Mark Darcy, and that he was smiling behind a pair of shades that were, quite frankly, far too hip for him.

Emerging from the passenger side was Bridget, who was giving Mark an equally smiley goodbye.

Mark drove off before Bridget noticed Daniel's presence in the open doorway. She brightened again. "Hi!"

"Hi," he said, puzzled about what he'd just seen. "Was that Darce?"

"It was. Gave me a lift home. He's been asked to be the godfather to Magda's baby."

And Bridget was the godmother. "Oh," he said.

"That doesn't bother you, I hope," she said.

"No," he said. "We're all adults. So. How did the lunch go?"

"It was great. Magda looks super for having had a baby less than a week ago. A bit tired, but that's expected. It'll probably happen when you're away… the christening, I mean."

"I'm sorry I'll miss it," he said.

She laughed. "Liar."

He chuckled too. He realised, once his eyes adjusted to the lower light level inside, that she looked a bit drawn. "You all right?"

"I indulged in a bit too much cake and got a little sick."

"Poor darling," he said gently, then took her in his arms for a cuddle. "You're okay now? Do I need to put you to bed?"

"Oh yes. Much better now." After indulging in the embrace a bit she said, "I almost wish I could go with you."

"So do I, but now you've got this christening thing to occupy your time." He nuzzled into her ear. "Perhaps I should put you to bed after all."

Her pleased purr told him all he needed to know. He'd have to bank up to sustain himself for the duration of his trip; the plane for New York left in the morning.

…

_Weds, 5 Jul_

There was nothing to be done about it; Bridget would need to see her doctor. After three more days of almost clockwork stomach upset (and staying home on Tuesday due to feeling so poorly) and concern that she might actually have something serious, she gave up and rang for an appointment the following morning.

"Standard round of tests, I think," the doctor said after her vitals had been taken; her pulse and blood pressure were normal (if a little elevated, understandable in a slightly stressful situation) and her lungs were clear. "Let's rule out the usual suspects." She was promised that she would hear from the doctor by the afternoon, and in the meanwhile if she felt the nausea start to return, to make a spot of peppermint tea.

She was barely home from the crosstown trip when her mobile rang.

"Mrs Cleaver," said the female voice on the line. "This is Sarah from Doctor Rawling's office."

Her mind raced with possibilities. Did it mean good or bad news, coming back so quickly? "Oh."

A pause. "Sorry. Is now a good time?"

"Yes, it's fine. I'm surprised to hear from you already."

"Doctor Rawling was concerned that it might be something serious."

"Is it?" she asked suddenly.

"Mrs Cleaver," Sarah said, "you're pregnant."

The tone of her voice was neutral as she gave Bridget the news—because what's good news for some might not be for others—but Bridget let out a little squeal that told the receptionist that for her, this was indeed good news.

"Congratulations," Sarah added.

"How far along am I?"

"Morning sickness doesn't usually kick in until about six weeks."

Bridget counted backwards… probably just near the end of May. Had it been the night they spent at the hotel for the reception? Had they been careless? Had something she'd done, something she'd eaten or drank, negated her pills? "Oh God," she blurted. "I've been taking the pill."

"Should be just fine. Obviously you'll want to stop now."

She chuckled in relief. "Obviously."

Bridget made an appointment to return to the doctor's in another couple of weeks; Sarah recommended some reading materials and said she'd forward Bridget an email with links for good resources. With that she said her goodbyes and put down the phone, grinning like a fool. A baby!

Her first instinct was to call Daniel, but she resisted. He might want to come home, and he had business to which he needed to attend without distraction. She much preferred to give him the news in person, and what a thing it would be for him to come home to learn!

It did mean, however, that she could tell no one else, either. Not Magda; not Jude, Sharon or Tom. Not her mother and father! It was going to drive her mad to sit on such a secret for a week and a half, but she knew she must.

…

_Fri, 7 Jul_

A week away, a week to go. It was unthinkable that Daniel spend Friday night cooped up in his hotel room watching sports recaps and not socialising and networking with his colleagues, so he washed up and went down to the hotel bar, where his counterparts from Pemberley Press New York would be waiting. To be honest, as extroverted as he was, he had been seriously craving the company of others in social situations; he had not been out drinking socially since he'd gotten married, although it was true that his usual reason for going to nightclubs was negated due to said marriage. Still, he missed talking with people, holding their attention, having the spotlight, being the centre of attention.

The first person onto whom his eyes locked was Lara. Tall, brunette, thin, and sexy as hell, she had been very heavily hinting to him that she was interested in more than just talking with him, not just while he'd been here this week, but through his phone calls with her, electronic communications and video conferencing.

"Hello, Mr Cleaver," she said with an impish smile, dressed in what could best be termed the opposite of business attire: a snug top that bared her sleek midriff, a miniskirt that hugged her hips and high-heeled leather boots that came up to her knees. She'd done her makeup for night-time, darker shadow and heavy liner, as well as a blood red lipstick that spoke volumes to him about her intention.

"Lara," he said, his eyes briefly drawn to her chest, or rather, he mused, the lack of one; for as tight as her shirt was, there was absolutely nothing spectacular on offer; his mind went immediately to Bridget's ample assets. "What are you having?"

"Rather hoping for… well, I think you know," she said, lifting her chin.

"Bloody Mary, then," he said coolly.

She followed him to the bar.

"You do know I'm married now," he said without looking at her and just loud enough to be heard over the din of other patrons' voices.

"So?" Lara said, tracing her nails lazily on the back of his hand. "She's in London, and would never hear a thing from my lips."

"Vodka on the rocks," he said to the bartender.

"Daniel." Her voice was right next to his ear, breath hot on his neck, but what might have been tempting three months was now repulsive to him. This surprised him probably more than it would anyone else.

"Bloody Mary for the lady," he continued, "and I use that term loosely."

She backed away, exhaling sharply. "One night offer," she said in what he supposed she intended as a threatening tone.

"Does that mean you'll stop shamelessly throwing yourself at me after tonight?" he asked, handing her the drink, then didn't wait for her to respond before continuing. "Great. See you tomorrow." He took his own drink, raised it in a sort of toast, then took a long draw before walking away.

He found a few of his colleagues at whose table he perched, two men and another woman, none of whom seemed interested in anything more than light conversation. He got chatted up a few more times by pretty young women that came by the table, but he was able to gracefully deflect their attention. Lara he did not see again, which would make the next week of working slightly awkward (for her, anyway; she'd brought it upon herself).

It was going to be a very long week until he saw Bridget once more; then again, there was always the possibility that Bridget could work some magic telephonically.


	4. Chapter 4

**It's a Nice Day to Start Again**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 78,546  
Chapters: 11 + epilogue  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Chapter 4.

_Sat, 15 Jul_  
_The Christening_

Mark was worried. When he did something for the first time, he always worried; he expected immediate perfection from himself and assumed everyone else expected it too. He chided himself in this case, though.

_You'll hold a baby_, he thought as he straightened his tie in front of the mirror, _you'll say some words, then it'll be done._

He arrived early to the church and for his punctuality he was rewarded with holding the baby while final details were being settled. He felt completely out of his element, and all of his mental preparations were shattered.

"Jesus, where's Bridget?" asked Magda impatiently. "I should have had you swing by and pick her up, Mark. Your earliness would've balanced out her always being late."

As if saying her name invoked her to materialise, Bridget rushed into the church looking quite contrite. "Sorry, sorry, I hit a snag in traffic—" She stopped as she looked at Mark at last, then couldn't help smiling a little, then laughing.

"What?"

"Who taught you how to hold a baby?"

He glanced down; he had the child in his arm, his tiny chest up against Mark's forearm. Surely if Magda had had a problem with it, she would have spoken up. "This isn't all right?"

"You're holding him like a sack of flour." This caused even Magda to chuckle. "Here." Bridget lifted him up, then settled him into the crook of Mark's arm. The baby promptly put his fist into his mouth then closed his eyes, well on his way to sleep. "There we are."

Mark felt a cloud settle over his mood; he evidently couldn't even hold a baby correctly. "I didn't hurt him, did I?"

"He's fine," Magda said. "If he hadn't been swaddled so tightly I'd've had your head. If he'd been uncomfortable, you would have known about it."

Mark felt a little wounded; why had Bridget spoken up at all?

"You don't have to look like that," Bridget said. "I'm just giving you a hard time. He's obviously pretty content. You two are a good fit for godson and godfather." She gave him a little wink, which made Mark feel instantly better.

"So let's go over here—" She indicated the baptismal where the actual ceremony would be performed. "—and, Bee, you've done this before, but I'll walk through it for Mark." She described the process, which didn't sound all that complex at all, nor did it sound like it would take a long period of time. He started to feel less tense.

"Here, Mark, I'll need to get him dressed." Magda took back the baby.

"Dressed?"

"In his little gown." She grinned. "You can have a seat there in the front until we're ready to go."

"Great."

Magda and the baby went into the vestry, leaving Mark alone with Bridget near the front of the church; a few people had come in and were milling around in the foyer. She preceded him down and around to the pew when she seemed to lose her footing. Reflexively he caught her around the shoulder as she fell back into him.

"Are you all right?" he asked as he guided her to have a seat.

"Bit lightheaded. Need to remember to eat for two now."

Mark thought for sure he'd misheard, but when she gasped and clamped a hand over her mouth, he knew precisely what her words must have meant. Her queasiness the week before suddenly made sense. She confirmed it quickly.

"Oh, God, Mark," she said quietly. "Please, don't say a word. I… haven't told anyone yet. Daniel's not home until tomorrow."

Mark felt as if his blood had turned to ice. Daniel, a father? It seemed like the worst idea in the world, but he supposed, unlikely as it was, that there might be information to which he was not privileged; he was therefore in no position to pass judgment. _Look where that's gotten you in the past,_ he thought. In the most objective tone he could manage, he asked, "Is this something you want?"

"Oh, yes, don't get me wrong… just a bit sooner than expected, and not the sort of thing I want to announce over the phone." There was movement behind them, then Magda and Jeremy came out of the vestry with the vicar. "Please don't say anything."

"You have my word." He rose, offering a hand to help her to stand, which she accepted.

The ceremony proceeded quickly and smoothly, with complete cooperation by the infant. Mark recited his part as instructed, as did Bridget; however, for Mark there was an odd impression throughout the proceeding, a feeling he could not shake. It was not until little William John was given the ritualistic sprinkling of water on his tiny pink forehead that Mark realised what it was.

The ceremony eerily paralleled one of holy wedlock.

The thoughts that occupied Mark's mind during the luncheon to follow were not thoughts he was proud to have; if she were in fact actually with child, he suspected strongly that nothing good would come of the situation. He knew Daniel far too well, had too many years worth of experience, to think Daniel would make a suitable father, not when the man's father had set such a poor example. The more he considered it, the more he knew Daniel could not have changed that much in such a short amount of time.

It pained him inside to think of what the fallout would do to Bridget. Surely she'd had some idea of Daniel's nature when she met him, but she probably believed she had worked some kind of miracle to turn him into the marrying kind. She probably also believed he would be ecstatic at the idea of a child. Mark was not so optimistic.

Almost equal to the pain, however, was the surprise he felt at the swell of protectiveness that had risen in him. He had no idea from where it had come with such apparent suddenness, but the more he reflected upon it, the more he knew with certainty it had not been sudden at all. It had been building up as he'd let his guard down. He'd figured he was out of range of the sort of ensnarement so many women in his social circle liked to practise; she was attached, she was _married_, in love with another man… she was safe.

"Everything all right?"

His attention snapped to Magda, who was looking at him with some worry. His gaze moved to Jeremy, then to Bridget. They all looked concerned. "Yes, it's fine. I'm fine." He offered a smile, attempting to make light of it. "The pressure of all this new responsibility is wearing on me."

His attempt at brushing it off with humour apparently worked; they all smiled and chuckled, looking much relaxed. He could not deny he felt something for her, though, and that was a bit alarming to him.

…

_Sun, 16 Jul_

The plane touching down at Heathrow underscored Daniel's impatience in getting home. Two weeks in New York would have, at one time, been like a holiday, but he instead had found his stay to be a non-stop carousel of waking, working, eating and drinking, and the whole thing had become quite tedious to him. Was it possible marriage had awakened some kind of maturity in him? What once had been so appealing and exciting was now something to be tolerated.

The hired car was waiting for him at Arrivals, and he actually felt a bit invigorated at the thought of going home, seeing Bridget's beautiful smile… and sweeping her up into his arms for a proper kiss and, stamina willing, a long overdue shag.

The flat was quiet when he arrived, so quiet that he wasn't sure Bridget was actually home. From upstairs, though, he heard her cough; deciding he would surprise her, without saying a word he set his bags down then crept upstairs.

She was lounging on a chair, nose-deep in a book, faced away from the door for an occasional view out of the window while reading. He came up behind her, waiting for her to notice he was there. As he did, he could not help seeing the title of the book she was reading: _What to Expect When You're Expecting_.

"Come now, Bridge, too soon to be thinking of that," he said drolly, causing her to jump, the book dropping from her grasp.

As soon as he said it, he regretted it. The way her skin had paled, the slight gape to her mouth, told him that perhaps she had news to impart. "Oh," he said, the realisation hitting him fully. She was already pregnant.

"Yes, 'oh', Daniel." Her lower lip quivered. "Is that really all you have to say?"

"Sorry, sorry," he said, then reached to pull her up off of the chair and into his arms. "I'm just… caught off guard. Never thought—how long have you known?"

"About a week and a half, at the doctor's," she said; her embrace was anything but warm, and her voice was still tremulous. "Aren't you at least happy about this?"

"Yes!" he said apologetically, tightening his embrace. "Of course I am."

In his reaction, Daniel knew he was overcompensating wildly. Regrettably, he was also lying. In his years of shagging his way around the world, he always thought some day he would settle down and have a family. Have some kids. Now that this day was actually upon him, not just a false alarm, not just a scare? He realised fully in that moment that he absolutely did not want them. He had no rapport with any of the children he'd ever met (which, admittedly, was not that many), and he wanted nothing to do with the remotest possibility or inflicting upon a child what his own father had inflicted upon him.

Holding his pregnant wife in his arms was, of course, a very bad time to have had this realisation.

"Thank goodness," said Bridget with an obvious, almost over-exaggerated sigh of relief as she drew away from him; she was grinning very broadly. "I know it's unexpected and a lot sooner than we'd planned, but… I guess it was meant to be."

"That must be it," he said, forcing a similarly broad smile; when had they planned anything? He hated himself for planning possible escape routes, even now. _Pull yourself together_, Cleaver, he thought. _This is your responsibility, and you will do your best to not be your father._

He found, however, that he had rather lost all spark of libido.

…

_Tues, 18 Jul_

Once Daniel had returned home, news of Bridget's pregnancy spread like wildfire amongst the hens in Grafton Underwood. When Elaine Darcy called Mark to inform him, he sheepishly informed her in return how he had already come to be privy to this information.

"_You_ were the first to know?" she asked.

"Only by a day, I suspect," he replied.

His mother was silent for a few moments, then said. "I won't say anything."

Mark knew that it was fairly standard that the father be the first to know, but honestly he did not know why the fuss, why her dramatic response.

"Obviously," she continued, "if he knew she told you first it might… ruffle feathers."

Suddenly, he understood; if Daniel did find out, he might either not hear or not believe that the information had come out accidentally. He might actually believe that Mark was actively sabotaging his marriage in revenge for what had happened with his own. It was ridiculous but entirely likely.

Later that same day, Jeremy approached him at work to invite him to dinner that weekend, Saturday night. "I know it hasn't been very long since the baby's come," said Jeremy, "and this is rather short notice, but Mags really wants the company of fully functional adults."

Mark smiled sympathetically. "I'd be happy to come."

…

Bridget was beginning to realise that something odd was going on. Daniel had been acting very strangely since his return; he acted as if he were put off by sex, as if she had suddenly become repulsive to him; he changed the subject every time she brought up anything relating to the baby.

He was acting as if perhaps he really wasn't happy about it, after all.

"Daniel," she asked in a subdued tone as they prepared for bed. "You're not just humouring me, are you?"

He spit out his toothpaste and looked at her via the proxy of the bathroom mirror. "Humour you, Bridge? I would never do that."

"So you're pleased at the thought of being a father?" she asked, more a statement than a question.

His gaze dropped down. "Of course I am," he said, running the toothbrush under the stream of water. "A bit unexpected, granted, but…"

"'But' what?"

"You know," he said. "I'm pleased."

His answer, his evading her eyes… her heart sunk. She didn't know why, but it felt to her as if he was not telling her the truth. Tears began to well in her eyes, which she fought; she wanted to shout at him that he was behaving as if he'd been told he had nine months to live. Even Jeremy had had more enthusiasm about his third child than Daniel was mustering for his first.

Thoughts of Jeremy reminded her of the invitation, though; happy to drop the subject for now, she took in a deep breath and said, "We've been asked 'round for supper tomorrow to Magda's."

"Is she the one with a hundred wee ones?" he joked, as he looked to her again.

"It's not a hundred, it's three," she said, attempting to mirror his light tone. She added with an almost challenge in her voice, "You can get in some practise."

"There'd better be wine," he said, then turned on the faucet to wash his face, effectively rendering the conversation over. She turned away and went back into the bedroom, turned back the sheets and slipped in. She reached up to switch off the light, feeling herself tear up again as she laid curled up on her side, turned away from where he would be joining her. She didn't want him to see, and squeezed her lids shut against the emotion.

After a few moments she felt his weight settle in behind her. "Bridge," he said quietly, stroking her shoulder with his fingers. She didn't reply, hoping he might believe she'd fallen asleep. His lips touched tenderly on her bare skin; his hand slipped around to cup her breast as he shifted to kiss her cheek. She opened her eyes and turned her head slightly to find his lips upon hers insistently.

She gasped and instinctively returned the kiss. Had she just been misjudging, misinterpreting his actions and words, imagining he didn't care? Her hormones were in flux, after all. She turned over to face him; his hand slipped around her waist to press into her backside, then pushed up her short nightgown. "Oh, love," he murmured close to her ear, nuzzling into her neck, shifting into place, making tender love to her.

As she fell asleep with him spooned against her back, tears came again in her happy relief.

…

As Bridget fell to peaceful sleep, Daniel could not. He knew he'd upset her; he'd seen her tears, heard the tremor in her voice as she'd spoken, and could not bear to look at her as he'd lied. It was not as if he didn't love her, because he did, and he wanted more than anything to love any child of theirs… but he didn't know if he could do it, if he were capable of loving, caring for and raising a child.

She deserved better. She and the baby both did.

He waited until he was certain she was fast asleep before withdrawing from the bed. If he was going to suffer through a bout of insomnia, he did not want to disturb her. He poured himself a shot of vodka, took it to the window, which he opened for some fresh night air. Almost without thinking he lit a cigarette and took a long draw before he started to laugh in the absurdity of the moment. He was going to have to shape up if he was going to be a decent father. No more casual drinking, and the cigarettes… between the two of them, he mused, that child was going to come out wanting a nicotine fix. Possibly with fag in hand.

As he had what should be his last cigarette and last drink with a baby on the way… why did he feel like a man heading for the gallows in the morning?

…

_Sat, 22 Jul_

In the day or two leading up to the dinner invitation, Mark felt a pervasive apprehension about that evening, but for what reason he honestly could not define. Maybe it was the last time he'd been to Jeremy's, with what he knew now to be morning sickness on Bridget's part and the realisation that he perhaps had deeper feelings than he wanted to admit. It was not surprising that he was the first to arrive, if the number of vehicles (or lack thereof) was anything by which to judge. He had brought a bottle of red wine, which he grabbed as he exited his vehicle. He went to the front door and pressed the doorbell.

Magda looked refreshed, certainly more than the last time he'd seen her, as she answered the door, but it quickly turned to surprise. "Oh! Mark! Hello!"

"Something wrong?" he asked, then joked, "Did I come on the wrong night?"

"No, sorry, I just… I was under the impression you would be bringing someone."

His head spun a bit, and he covered up his silence by entering the house. What would lead Jeremy to believe he had a girlfriend? "I didn't," he said, a tad too defensively.

"It's all right; no one's passing judgment," said Magda. "Just don't want you to feel like the odd man out. Come on; have something to drink."

He wasn't sure what she meant until the other guests began to arrive in pairs; it was a much bigger dinner party than he expected, and the children were nowhere in sight. Cosmo and Fiona, Julia and Michael—

Bridget and Daniel.

"I'm sorry we're late," Bridget said as they came in; as her gaze locked upon Mark, her eyes widened. "Oh, hello."

He'd had no idea they would be there, but he vowed to be civil for her sake, and for Magda's. "Hello, Bridget," he said, then added in a genial if cool tone, "Cleaver."

Daniel, ever the provocateur, grinned and his voice exuded charm and pleasure as he spoke. "Darce, old mate," he said. "Long time no see."

Magda looked confused. Mark thought it very likely she did not know their shared past… and, to an extent, shared present. Mark turned his attention to Bridget; it was only then he realised how radiantly beautiful she looked in the early stages of her pregnancy. It was still far too early to tell by looking at her; she wasn't showing yet, but she veritably glowed… and he could not help but notice that her chest had filled out a bit.

He looked away from her and down to the glass of wine he held. "Nice to see you," he said, and it wasn't a lie; it _was_ nice to see Bridget, at least. If Daniel was making her happy, Mark would tolerate his presence.

"If you hadn't heard," Magda said exuberantly, putting her arm around Bridget's shoulders and beaming proudly, "we have an expectant mum here!"

The sound of gleeful shrieks filled the room as the women went to her to give their heartfelt hugs and best wishes. The men looked pleased too and said as much, congratulating both Bridget and Daniel. Mark noticed, however, that Daniel seemed to wish he were anywhere but here.

"And where's _your_ little one, Mags?" asked Julia.

"Sleeping, thank goodness. He should be sociable after dinner."

Mark wondered where the older children were, but guessed they were probably in the lounge with their videos and their father, who was, Mark realised, not present. This conjecture was proven correct when first Constance appeared, bee-lining directly for Bridget; Jeremy was directly behind her. "Auntie Bee!" she said, throwing her arms around Bridget's legs.

"Constance, come now," Jeremy said. "Bridget, sorry."

Bridget bent to give Constance a hug. "Don't apologise," she said. "Now Constance, I'm having dinner with your mummy and daddy but I'll come and see you for dessert. Okay?"

"Okay," she said, though didn't seem too happy about it.

Bridget stood to her full height again, taking the girl up in her arms and turning. "Constance," she said, "There's someone I want you to meet."

"Who?"

She swivelled to face her nearby husband then smiled. "Constance, remember when I told you I got married, like your mum and dad? This is… Uncle Daniel."

Mark could plainly see Constance's face, and she looked like she had smelled something unpleasant. "Oh, I thought you meant someone else," Constance said, then turned her gaze very pointedly towards Mark.

Mark felt his embarrassment quite acutely, was sure his skin turned crimson. "She's just confused because of the christening," he said quickly. "When we stood up there together for William."

"It's _very_ nice to meet you, Constance," Daniel said, voice as smooth a silk and with a smile, glossing over the whole embarrassing situation. "I've heard a lot about you."

She furrowed her small brow. "I'm only four, you know."

This garnered chuckles from around the room. Bridget set the girl back down just as her father said, "Come on, Constance, back to your supper. You heard what Auntie Bee said."

"Dessert!"

Mark observed Bridget leaning into Daniel—probably offering her apologies, though what had occurred had hardly been her fault—and Daniel raising his unblinking gaze to his former friend. Mark had already decided would not give in to the old hatred. Instead he headed for the dining room, into which the other couples had begun to filter.

"Mark," said Magda confidentially. "What's going on?"

Mark shook his head; it was not the time nor the place. "I'll explain later."

She pursed her lips but agreed with a nod.

Magda had had to do a little seating rearrangement in the time since learning that Mark had come alone. It made for an odd number because Jeremy came to join them at the head. He was directly across from Bridget, and next to Cosmo; he was only grateful that Magda had not placed him beside Daniel, because it might well have come to blows if Daniel had anything to say about it.

…

Despite his laid-back exterior, Daniel wanted nothing more than to give that smug bastard Mark Darcy exactly what he deserved, preferably in the form of a punch to the jaw. Exactly how much time had Mark spent with Bridget during his trip to New York that a four-year-old was making commentary? Exactly how close had they gotten?

He would never let Darcy know how much this bothered him at present, though. He engaged as naturally and easily as possible during dinner, while his former friend said little to nothing, seeming inordinately interested in the content of his plate or his wine glass, despite Bridget's repeated attempts to draw him into conversation. Daniel was rewarded for his gregariousness with affectionate pats, smiles and chuckles from Bridget. The warmth and love he saw in her eyes reflected her happiness, which Daniel hoped pettily would make Darcy miserable.

When it came time for dessert, Magda went to get baby William. The other two children, Constance and Harry, were allowed to join the adults. It was obvious that the two had been sternly instructed to be on their best behaviour.

There was no escaping having the newborn thrust into his arms, and never in his life had Daniel been more uncomfortable. He felt like any motion at all would be enough to cause harm, or at the very least, cause the child to cry.

"He's not a gyroscopic bomb, you know," came a male voice, one at first he was convinced was Mark's, but turned out to be the pompous windbag called Cosmo. This comment caused low murmurs of amusement.

"If you do it enough, it becomes second nature," said his wife, whom others had called 'Woney' as a baby-speak adaptation of her actual first name, Fiona; her belly protruded enough to suggest she was herself up the spout (due sometime in November, if he recalled correctly the mindless chatter during dinner). Daniel had only just met her, and he despised her and her moronic husband already.

Daniel tried to shift the baby from one arm to another with a single smooth motion, but it didn't go quite as he planned, and a slight jerking caused the infant to wake suddenly and start screaming. His mother took him immediately and started cooing to him. "It's all right," said Woney to Daniel with a measure of smug condescension as she patted her stomach. "I'm sure you'll have it perfected to an art before long."

"Daniel! Daniel! Why'd you make Wills cry?"

This was Harry, the elder boy, tugging at his trousers. Daniel looked down with, he hoped, not too much venom in his glare. "It wasn't on purpose," he said. "And aren't you supposed to call me Uncle Daniel?"

"You're not our real uncle," came Constance's voice.

"Neither is Bridge—Auntie Bee."

Constance's eyes went wide. "You're lying!" she said, her face getting red, tears gathering in her eyes before she ran away towards her mother. "Mummeeee!" she wailed. "He said a horrible thing!"

_Great_, he thought. _I've made two of three children cry._ Daniel looked to Harry. "I suppose I'm a horrible person, eh, Harry?"

Harry simply gawped at him for a moment before running away, as if Daniel might tear off his head and eat it.

Daniel was thus left in the company of the hateful Cosmo and Woney, who looked at him as if he were subhuman. "A little more coffee for me," Daniel said, making his excuses to get away, wondering where in hell his wife was, anyway.

He soon had an answer when he spotted her talking with Mark Darcy, and he spent a few moments wondering how best to approach when Magda brought little Constance back in an effort to restore Daniel to her good graces. He appreciated the effort, but he could do little else than watch the two of them interact.

What specifically caught his attention was Mark, or rather, the expression that graced his features. It was not a look he had commonly seen on Mark's face: a friendly, warm smile; a casual, relaxed posture; but most of all, Daniel could not help noticing that his gaze rarely left her, and an appreciative one it was. Mark then laughed out loud, spontaneously and sincerely, which was thoroughly unlike the staid man he had always known. For the first time Daniel realised that while perhaps Mark was not in fact actively attempting to upset him or his marriage, he was… possibly interested in Bridget.

Daniel didn't know which option was worse.

…

"Is everything okay with you, or is it just… the ambush?"

Bridget's voice suddenly so near to Mark startled him visibly, which made her chuckle.

"Sorry," she said.

"Don't be sorry," he said in a low tone. "And yes, I suppose I do feel a bit ambushed. I admit, I was trying to lie low." He surprised himself with the admission, with his openness to her about his feelings. "I mean, I don't want to make a scene."

"I wish there was something I could do," she said. "I mean, to help you two patch things up."

At that moment, the baby began wailing at top volume; they both turned and saw Daniel amidst some of the other friends holding little William, just as Magda came to scoop him away. Daniel looked exasperated, and did not get a chance to recover before the other two children bore down upon him.

"Aww." He glanced towards Bridget, who was smiling wistfully. "I have to give him credit for trying. He's got no experience with children."

Mark knew this all too well that the lack of opportunity was predominantly by choice. Daniel had actively avoided befriending couples, especially couples with children. Mark, however, said nothing, which was just as well because now Constance was running away, crying for her mother, followed shortly by Harry.

"Oh, I wonder what's happened now," said Bridget tenderly.

That she was so blinded by love both pained him and annoyed him in equal parts; he hoped for her sake that Daniel was indeed a changed man, that he was truly trying, that he now wanted the domesticity he had always scoffed at and scorned. He watched as Magda brought Constance back to Daniel; whatever had caused her to run for her mother seemed on its way to being smoothed over.

"So my mum tells me she's super involved with your mum in some Rotary thing… and she's begging me to help, too."

Both the sound of her voice and her abrupt change in subject brought him from his thoughts and back to the present.

"I don't suppose you get your mum nagging you to do things like that," she continued.

"You'd be surprised," he said with a smile. "They're not _only_ tormenting the daughters of Grafton Underwood."

She raised a single brow, then said with an air of criticism, "And the last time you spent an entire Saturday afternoon drawing sheep on envelopes for a garden party to raise awareness for local, sustainably produced wool?"

At this, he chuckled, "You've got me there." He paused. "I thought that was a llama."

This made her chuckle. "Oh!" she said brightly, as if she'd just had the most brilliant idea ever. "Do you suppose I could claim human rights violations if they try to make me usher one of their events when I'm eight months pregnant?"

Mark laughed again.

"Bridge."

Quite without their noticing, Daniel had appeared and was now addressing his wife. Daniel's gaze was locked upon her, and for a split second something akin to jealousy washed over his features before smoothing out into something more placid.

"I think you should sit down," he continued. "You really shouldn't be on your feet."

Mark noticed two things: that Daniel was not acknowledging that Mark even existed; that Daniel's insistence that Bridget get off of her feet was a patently flimsy excuse to direct her away from a conversation she was obviously enjoying.

"Oh…" she began hesitantly, glancing to Mark furtively; clearly she thought this interruption was uncouth. "I—"

"So, Daniel!" The conversation was interrupted by Fiona (Mark could not bear to think of any grown woman by a baby-talk nickname), whose bright smile and demeanour indicated she had no idea she had interrupted a tense moment. "You must be so excited to be blessed with a baby already!"

Mark took the interruption as an escape route, not wishing to incur further humiliation upon Bridget. He had to admit it was touching that she had been worrying about his feelings at being brushed off so rudely, even if the one doing the brushing off was the man to whom she was married. "Pardon me," he said curtly, then stepped away.

Comfortable, safe conversation was what Mark wanted, so he found himself drawn to Jeremy, who had taken over keeping an eye on Constance and Harry while Magda showed little William off to the assembled. "It gets a bit much, even with other chaps here," Jeremy confided. "The wives usually hang on to their hubbies, who, quite frankly, look pretty desperate, like they're furtively planning an escape at any moment."

Mark smiled then laughed a little, because at that moment he happened to glance at Julia and Michael; the latter had exactly such an expression on his face. Mark could appreciate how he felt. He really liked Magda and Jeremy's children (in small doses, anyway), but in his experience, men did not seem to get as—_Well,_ he thought, _gooey_—as women did over babies who were not their own.

It was Fiona who made the first motion towards ending the evening, claiming fatigue with a pat to her distended belly, a claim no one doubted. This started everyone to saying their goodbyes. Bridget surprised Mark by coming over to where he'd remained with Jeremy and the kids; a quick glance told him Daniel was chatting with Cosmo.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "About before."

"You have no need to apologise," Mark responded immediately. At her continued expression of discomfort, he asked gently, "What else is troubling you?"

She looked even more apprehensive, pursing her lips, before offering reluctantly, "He's been acting a bit oddly all week, since he's been back."

_Since learning he was going to be a father_, Mark thought. "Maybe jet lag?" he joked, eliciting a very small smile. "In all seriousness, learning of impending fatherhood is big news, and unlike anything he's done before. The shock is probably just wearing off." She hardly looked comforted, so he added, "A lot's changed for him in the last few months, and I think he's probably changed too."

"For the better, I hope."

"Yes, for the better. I never could have imagined he would ever get married, so he still has the capacity to surprise even me."

She brightened considerably, and was about to reply but a crescendo of cooing by the ladies (due to something cute the baby did) interrupted them and they both smiled, then laughed. "If I turn into _that_ after the baby," she said discreetly, "put me out of my misery."

This comment took him aback, but pleasantly so. He had expected that her smile meant she was joining in with the delight the other women were expressing; instead, she was poking fun at them. "Legal ethics forbid me from anything like that," he said, "but I _will_ promise to have you locked up in the attic."

At his literary reference she almost seemed surprised, then smiled.

Further conversation was halted by a child's voice; it was Constance, arms outstretched. "Auntie Bee! I came to say bye-bye."

Bridget bent and picked her up, giving her a big hug, one which was returned tightly. "Bye, sweetie."

"Bye," said Constance. "See you soon?"

"Hope so." She pecked the little girl on the cheek.

"You know," said Constance thoughtfully, "I don't care what he said, you _are_ my real auntie."

This plainly puzzled Bridget as much as it puzzled Mark. "Of course I am, darling," she said as she set the girl back on her feet. "Be a good girl for your mum, okay? You too, Harry," she said, addressing the latter as she bent to pick him up for his hug.

"Love you, Auntie Bee," Harry said, his voice muffled in her hair.

She set him down with a peck and they went away at the bidding of their mother. As they did, Bridget turned back towards Mark. "Well. Better get going," she said. "'Bye."

"Goodbye, Bridget."

He waited for everyone else to leave before making his way to the door. His curiosity got the best of him and he said to Magda, "Constance said something odd about Bridget's aunt-hood status."

Magda rolled her eyes in exasperation before she could stop herself. "Daniel told her that Bridget was not her 'real' aunt, which sent her into floods of tears." She sighed. "I'm really trying. I really want to like him because he's making Bridge happy, but… he just rubs me the wrong way. It may be because he's more uncomfortable around children than anyone else I've ever met."

Mark thought so too, but thought Daniel's discomfort could be explained away by other past events. He wondered if it might not behove him to tell Magda and Jeremy of their shared past, especially if Daniel was to be raising a child with their mutual friend. So he asked that they install the elder two children in front of the telly with their favourite DVD, and when they were suitably engrossed, Mark proceeded to factually describe the events of that despicable Christmas, just as he might have done laying out a court case for a jury.

By the end of it, Magda had her hand over her gaping mouth and she was sitting on the edge of the sofa's arm. "Oh, God, Mark. I never would have…" She trailed off.

"I knew your marriage didn't work out," said Jeremy, "but this… never would have thought."

"I know," Mark said. "It's not something I advertised or was proud to admit."

"Oh God!" said Magda. "If Bridget knew…"

"She does."

"What?" she gasped. "How can you be sure? Did you tell her?"

"No, he did. She told me he did."

"And she still married him?"

"He told her after they'd been married," Mark said. "Perhaps his coming clean means he's turned over a new leaf."

There was a long period of silence before Magda spoke again. "Still… we'll be careful to not have you and them here at the same time."

"No," he said firmly, surprising even himself. "I can take the high road if we are here together, and I would hate to miss the chance to further develop a friendship with Bridget. I just wanted to offer an alternate explanation for his discomfort."

Jeremy and Magda were both looking at him with a strange expression. "I suppose," said Magda slowly. "I… _we_… appreciate your candour."

"Yes," said Jeremy. "And you can rely on us not to say a word to anyone else."

"I appreciate it."

With that he said goodbye to them—the children insisted on having hugs and surprised him with pecks to his cheek—and departed from their home to return to his own. He was feeling melancholy, though, and as he drove back to his home, fixed himself supper, read for a while then prepared for bed, he pondered why, but couldn't pin it down exactly.

It was only after he had been lying in bed, staring up where the moonlight was playing across the ceiling, that the reason struck him: the irony and the injustice of Daniel Cleaver, who'd never considered having children, preparing to be a father, when Mark, who had always wanted them, was nearing forty and had yet to have any. He tried to imagine what it would be like to get such news, that moment of surprise and joy when you know your life's about to change; what the anticipation might feel like knowing that the woman you love was bearing this burden, this responsibility, this _child_ for you…

His mind further careered off on tangents: What would it be like to actually be in Daniel's place? Married to Bridget, who was so different than the assumptions he'd made about her after their first meeting as adults, who talked to children as if they were sentient creatures and not condescending to them as if they were idiots, who did not herself turn into an IQ-draining, simpering baby-talker as soon as an infant entered the room.

For the first time in possibly the entire time he'd known Daniel Cleaver, Mark Darcy was experiencing a novel sensation: jealousy.


	5. Chapter 5

**It's a Nice Day to Start Again**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 78,546  
Chapters: 11 + epilogue  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.  
**This is the chapter for which the warning applies.**

* * *

Chapter 5.

_Sun, 23 Jul_

The first ten minutes she'd spent in total silence, wondering what had just happened.

In the week that Daniel had been back home from his trip to New York, he had seemed attentive, gentle and loving—'seemed' being the operative word. She could not shake the sense, though, that beneath the placid surface was a swirling, raging storm waiting to break.

There hadn't been much direct, tangible evidence on which to base this. It had just been a feeling she'd gotten when she was near to him, as if he were freezing up at her touch. He had in many other ways not been quite himself. His usual wit and repartee had been lacking, and he'd seemed to be biting back his tongue whenever she pressed him to know what the problem was. She was sure there was a problem.

After lunch today, the storm had indeed broken.

The better part of the next hour she'd spent in tears.

The explosion that was in reaction to her probing question served to seal every fear she had been harbouring about her pregnancy; indeed, perhaps her very marriage. Only now could she acknowledge to herself that there had been an inner tension, a low level current of stress, ever since she'd gotten the test result.

She cried herself to a point of numbness; his reaction had spoken louder than the actual words he'd spoken, and had told her what she'd always suspected: he did not want to be a father. He did not want children.

Given how he did not even answer when she called his mobile, she was beginning to suspect he did not really want her, either. That the marriage had been of the moment, impetuous and thrilling. When it came right down to it, he was not the kind of man to commit to anyone, least of all to a woman like her. He never had been. _Face it, Bridge_, she thought. _You're no stick insect; you're no Tina Brown; you're no social butterfly. Social pariah, more like._

The walls of the flat were starting to close in around her, and her stomach was so badly in knots that it hurt. Under ordinary circumstances, she would go to Café Rouge for a drink or three and cry on her friends' shoulders. She felt so ashamed, though; how often they had sat with her, cursing his name during periods of particularly bad fuckwittage in that impossibly short time before they'd eloped! How much she had neglected her Urban Family—and Magda, the only one of her married friends, had obviously not liked Daniel at all last night. How they would all say 'I told you so' as soon as they heard!

She thought of the road ahead, envisioned herself raising a baby all on her own—alone—

_I have to get out_, she thought, rising to her feet so quickly she made herself dizzy; her heart was beating in near-panic, her gut was clenched. _Have to go somewhere I can think. Some place that's mine_.

A cappuccino would make it all better, she reasoned. Then to the flat. _Her_ flat.

As she walked to her favourite coffee shop, which was located roughly halfway between where she lived now and where she'd once lived—which they had never even used as a retreat—she wondered if she had remembered to lock the door behind her. In fact, she began to doubt that she had even closed the door at all. But she was almost to her destination now. The expressions on the faces of the passers-by became a little more alarmed as she got closer and closer; surely her desperation showed on her face, in her gait. Did she have her handbag?

There, ahead, she saw a familiar face. She was pleased and relieved. "Mark," she said.

He said something in return, but she could barely make it out, though his expression was peculiar. One of distress, of agitation. The sun seemed to be going out. The sky was growing dark. The ground was rushing up to meet her.

…

Sooner or later, it was bound to happen. Daniel was only a mortal man, and could only take so much pressure. To have had it applied externally as well as internally with equal force had only made it worse.

Every day had brought another flashback of his childhood bubbling to the surface. The sound of his father's raised, slurred voice; the terror of never knowing what would trigger his temper. Vividly behind his closed eyes was either the sight of his mother cowering, or where she, placing herself between her son and husband, obscured the view of the drunken madman raging forward.

He had always known that history would only repeat itself. It was just a matter of his coming to the realisation it was in fact unavoidable. That despite his sincere love for her, he would ruin Bridget's life just as his father had ruined his mother's; he would skew the baby's psyche just as his own had been skewed.

In the days following the receipt of the ostensibly happy news of fatherhood, Daniel had employed an overcompensation of tenderness in an attempt to counteract his dark thoughts, but that had not been enough, or rather, he had not been adequately convincing. She had still known that he was troubled; her words to that effect were a criticism he had taken very much to heart. He had failed before he had ever begun.

His mobile rang, but he didn't answer it, not the first time, nor the next ten times after that. He had nothing more to say at this time to her. His only solace at present was the glass before him, which the bartender continued to top up at his request. Time was elastic; he could sense the people gathered around him were different at intervals, but could not judge how long he'd actually been there. Only that the drinks kept coming. And his mobile rang again and again.

"Can I buy you the next?"

He glanced to the side to see a gorgeous young brunette, curls resting contentedly on her bosom, her full red mouth split into a broad smile. He smiled back.

"Haven't you had enough?" asked the bartender, glancing up.

"No, no, I've only just met—" Daniel said, prompting her.

"Angela," she said.

"I've only just met Angela and she's going to buy me a drink, because she _can_."

Angela giggled. "I'll have whatever he's having."

There was a small part of him, deep in the recesses of his mind, that knew flirting outrageously was wrong with this woman who was no more than twenty-five. _You're married_, this part of him insisted.

_Shut up and have another drink_, he volleyed back.

He recalled at some point that Angela answered his phone, that it was a man, that it was important. He grabbed the mobile. "Fuck off," he shouted. "Stop calling me." He then turned the mobile off; the bartender said he was ringing up a taxi. However, Daniel didn't want to go home. He just did not want to face Bridget like this. Certainly he could not go to Bridget's old flat knowing she'd soon be going back there. In the end, through the fog of inebriation, he figured he could always take a room at The Ritz. He looked to Angela again—sparkling eyes, pert breasts, _very_ short skirt—and realised he didn't want to spend the night alone, but even in his drunken state knew that this was a line he shouldn't cross.

Somehow he felt better, though. He'd made a decision and he was going to follow it through. Tomorrow he'd return to the flat, he'd apologise for his outburst, and he'd tell Bridget he just couldn't do it anymore. He'd support her and the baby financially but otherwise—he had to stay away. Best for all involved.

When his head hit the pillow he fell into something akin to unconsciousness.

…

The way Bridget was listing as she walked was not normal, not healthy, nor was the pallor of her skin. Mark called her name; she said his in return. She even smiled a little.

That was when she collapsed to the pavement.

It had been sheer chance he should be at this particular coffee shop after meeting a client of his for an informal chat about an upcoming hearing—it was certainly not a place that was along his usual commute route—and equally fortuitous that he should have lingered to finish his drink. He spotted her after he'd exited and—

He ran to her side as had several other people who'd been walking nearby. He might not have been a doctor but he knew how to take charge of a tense situation, and ordered everyone to stay back. He dropped to his knees, placed his palm against her forehead; she was clammy despite the weather. He leaned down, observed the very slow rise and fall of her chest; he touched his forefingers to her throat and could determine she indeed had a pulse.

"Daddy? Did she hurt herself?" asked a nearby child, a young boy who stood hovering by a parental figure. The boy was pointing toward her leg; the father pulled the child away. Mark saw why. There was blood on the pavement there.

It took Mark a moment to put all the pieces together and when he did he pulled out his mobile and punched in 999. "I need an ambulance," he said, trying to retain his composure. "It's a medical emergency. There's a pregnant woman who's passed out and… bleeding."

With the assistance of one of the staff he was able to convey the address to emergency services, who told them they'd be there as soon as possible.

The wait seemed interminable, and Mark felt helpless; she was still unconscious and did not respond to the sound of her name nor to gentle taps to her face. He continued trying during what must have been only a few minutes until the paramedics were at her side, checking vitals then lifting her up with efficiency into the back of an ambulance.

"Here, sir, if you wouldn't mind." A woman's handbag was thrust towards him; it must have been hers, and he took it protectively. "We've got her stabilised, if you'd like to ride along."

Evidently they assumed he was her husband and he was not about to disabuse them of the notion. Someone needed to go with her.

The arrival to the hospital, where they whisked her off for examination, was all something of a blur. He found himself sitting there in a waiting area holding her handbag, which he realised was not even clasped shut. He tried to get it closed but he only succeeded in disgorging the contents onto the floor because his hands were trembling. When had that started?

He held her mobile in his hand which made him realise quite suddenly that he should phone someone about this. The first, obvious choice was Daniel; he opened her phone to find it was not locked with any sort of password. Bad for security; good for him.

Mark tried to call several times, but each time it rang through until it connected to voice mail. Each time he hung up. News that his wife was in the hospital for emergency medical services was not the sort of thing that he wanted to leave in a message.

After a moment's debate, he tried her parents' line; he felt they deserved to know, even if there were no immediate need to come down to London. The point was moot, though, because no one picked up the call, even after several tries.

At this point he decided to call his own mother on his own mobile, to see if she had any idea about where Bridget's parents might be. "Mark," said his mother. "This is a pleasant surprise."

"I wish it were pleasant on this end," he said in a hushed tone.

"What's wrong?" she asked immediately, her voice instantly crisp and concerned.

"I need to reach the Joneses. I'm at Accident and Emergency with their—with Bridget."

"My God. What happened?"

"We met by chance in front of a coffee shop, moments before she apparently passed out."

"She's okay? The baby?"

He paused before answering. "I don't have much information yet," he said, then added, "I hope they're okay."

"Her mother and father have gone out of town," she said. "Something about visiting relatives. I'm not sure how to reach them, but please let me know—"

There was more that she said, but she stopped when a nurse spoke loudly and close to him. "Sir, she's asking for you."

"Have to go," said Mark.

"Okay."

The nurse did not seem at all cheery, which was not a good omen to him, but he followed her. To his astonishment it had been several hours since they had arrived. "She's conscious and lucid now. The worst is over, and we've put her in a room to rest. We'll keep her the night for observation, with the bump to the head."

When he entered the room behind the nurse, when he saw her, he knew immediately that his direst fears for her had been realised. He was unlikely to forget her expression as she sat there on the bed; it was the expression of someone in the throes of exhaustion from crying. At seeing him, confusion was added to that mix. Maybe a touch of disappointment.

"Oh, I thought…" she said, her voice frail as it trailed off.

"I'll leave you alone," said the nurse, who then quickly retreated.

After a few quiet, uncomfortable moments, she said, "They told me my husband was here. I thought it was odd he should be here… how would he have known?"

"I'm afraid that… they're under the impression that I'm your husband," he said. "They made the assumption when the ambulance came and I didn't correct them. I apologise for that misapprehension, but I wanted to make sure you were all right."

She offered a weak smile. "Thanks. Oh. I should try to call him but…"

He still had her handbag, into which he had replaced her phone. He handed it back to her as he said, "Forgive me. I used your mobile. I've been trying to reach him."

"Nothing to forgive," she said, her eyes brimming again with tears as she went on. "Let me guess. He didn't answer."

Mark went to her side, taking a seat in a chair there. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said. Tears spilled forward again. "Though I've… lost it."

His heart sank; he had been right. She meant the baby. Without conscious thought he took her hand in his, grasped it tightly. "I'm so sorry."

She didn't reply right away, just hid her face with her hand in her sadness and humiliation as she wept silently. He reached with his free hand to where a box of tissues sat, and handed it to her. She took it gratefully, then dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose.

"I only asked what was the matter, what was _really_ the matter," she said without prompting. "I could tell there was something he wasn't telling me. And… he just…" She trailed off again.

"He didn't hurt you, did he?" asked Mark abruptly. He had never known Daniel to be physically violent towards women, but he knew all too well that circumstances could conspire to make people behave in abnormal ways.

She shook her head, then spoke quietly, "He didn't hit me, anyway. Hurt me? Yes." She met his gaze again, her lower lip quivering. "I can't believe… it's over." She began crying again.

Where she felt pain and loss, Mark could only feel anger directed towards the man who should have been here to support her, one who had, by her own admission, wounded her in some way. Now was not the time to express it, though. He wanted only to offer her comfort. He rose from the chair, releasing her hand.

"What?" she asked.

"If I might sit beside you… you look like you could use a friendly hug."

At this she managed a little smile, then nodded and sniffed. He slipped out of his suit jacket, folded it carefully and draped it over the back of his chair. He then sat on the bed beside her, opened his arms and enfolded her in them, taking care to avoid the intravenous drip. In return she put her arms around him and pressed her fingers into his back, so strong was her grasp; her shoulders began to shake with silent sobs. It was clear his instinct had been correct, that she need this kind of consolation in what was undoubtedly her darkest hour.

"I feel so empty," she said softly, the sound of her voice muffled by his shirt. He lazily brushed his hand in an arc along her back. He could feel her posture relax a little against him.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

He heard her sigh, then sniff again. "Thank you."

He sat there with her like this for many minutes. It had been but a few hours since this ordeal had begun, but he had no idea how long she had suffered with mental anguish before collapsing. He didn't know what more to do than to offer, "I can make some calls for you. Is there anyone you'd like me to ring?"

She didn't answer.

He looked down, gently pushing back, to see she appeared to be asleep. He carefully leaned forward in order to rest her upon her pillow, then watched her slow and steady breathing a few minutes more before taking her handbag again, then retrieving her phone.

After donning his suit jacket once more, Mark walked out of the room and into the hallway. Again he tried dialling Daniel's mobile from Bridget's. He fully expected more of the same, to get voice mail once again. Instead, though, the sound of ringing stopped; his ear filled with static and ambient conversation, then a voice. A woman's voice. "Yeah?"

"I was looking for Daniel Cleaver," he said coolly. "It's very important." Where was Daniel? Restaurant? Bar? _Probably bar_, he thought. _Callous fucking bastard._

"Oh yeah, I guess this's his mobile, right? Hey!" she shouted. "It's some bloke for you. Says it's important."

A split second later, Mark heard Daniel's gruff, inebriated voice in his ear. "Fuck off. Stop calling me." The call was then disconnected on Daniel's end.

Mark called again. It went immediately to messaging, which suggested Daniel had simply turned his phone off. Mark exhaled roughly in his frustration and ever-mounting anger. Without her authorisation, he didn't really feel comfortable calling anyone else. He slipped her phone into his suit pocket then decided to look for a cup of coffee and a bite of food, as it was well past supper and he was starting to feel the full force of his hunger. He asked the attending nurse where he might find something to eat and drink, and she directed him towards the commissary. He smiled and thanked her, his thoughts in a continued whirl.

The coffee was nowhere on par with what he had been served at the café, but it was serviceable; there was not a great deal of selection available given the time of day, but the sandwich he chose was not bad. He was almost finished with this impromptu meal when his own mobile began to vibrate and ring. It was his mother; he answered at once. Her unease imbued her voice. "Mark, I didn't want to pry, but… how is everything?"

He was torn. How much to say? What to tell her? He wasn't sure.

His silence, however, must have said it all, because she said, "Oh, _Mark_. She miscarried, didn't she?"

He took in a deep breath. "She did. Yes."

"Oh," she said sorrowfully. "How awful for her. How's Daniel taking it?"

"He… I haven't been able to get hold of him." It wasn't a complete lie, but he felt bad saying it all the same.

"Keep trying. I'll see what I can do to reach her parents. Perhaps she left a number with Una. She needs family. At least she's got you there, and isn't totally alone."

"Yes," he said. "I should probably go back to her room."

"Aren't visitors' hours over?" she asked.

He chuckled lightly. "They assumed I was her husband and I didn't take the trouble to correct them."

"Sometimes," she said, "little white lies are for the best."

As he walked back to the room, he smiled cordially at the attending nurse, who told him Bridget was still sleeping. "I could bring you a pillow and a blanket," she said conspiratorially. "I don't mind you staying if you like."

The chair was, at least, overstuffed and comfortable. He removed his suit jacket, carefully folding it then draping it over the back as he had before, then sat in it whilst waiting for the nurse to return. Bridget at least looked peaceful as she slept. He hoped it meant she was dreaming of pleasanter things.

He was sorry for her loss; there was no question of that. However, he could not help thinking that, given her mention of their fight earlier that day, and with no child to bond them, she could be free of Daniel if she chose to be. Daniel certainly didn't deserve her. This he had demonstrated time and again.

Mark felt very guilty for having these thoughts, particularly as it, in its way, sparked a certain amount of hope in him, even if he had no intention of acting on it. He cared for her; he wanted to be there for her, and if it meant in the capacity of friend, he was satisfied with that.

The nurse slipped in and handed him a blanket and pillow, bringing him from his thoughts. "Here you are, dear," she said, then glanced to Bridget. "Poor lamb. Should have heard her when she woke up… insisting it couldn't be true. You know." He did; she meant the miscarriage. "The sedative in her IV has helped calm her, but I'm glad you're here. Obviously you're doing her good, and… well, I'm sure you can try again soon enough."

He looked down to where Bridget slept, pain in his heart for her. "Yes," he said in a croak, maintaining the fiction.

"In my experience, devoted couples make the best parents," said the nurse with a small smile. "Well, I'll leave you be. Just press the call button if you need anything."

"Thank you kindly," he said. As she left, he resumed his station in the chair. He spread the blanket over his legs, propped the pillow between his head and the back of the chair. Watching her sleep, he soon found himself drifting off.

…

_Mon, 24 Jul_

Daniel Cleaver woke with the sun in a bed that was not his own, cursing his own name as his pulse pounded in his ears. _What a fucking idiot you are_, he thought. _She's got to be worried senseless._

Then he remembered his loss of temper. The horrible things he'd said to Bridget, even as he'd felt enormous relief in saying them at last. Her yelling at him through her tears that he had promised never to lie to her. Storming out, drinking himself into a stupor, ignoring her calls. All calls.

He phoned down for strong black coffee and dry toast, then dragged himself to the shower and washed up. He was just dressing himself again in the previous night's clothing when there was a knock on the door. Gratefully he accepted the coffee and toast and made himself eat despite the recurring swells of nausea.

It was too early in the morning to ring Bridget, so he figured he would just return home and talk directly with her. In the light of day, now that he was sober, he realised the decision he'd made the night before was wrong. Everything he'd said to her, everything he'd thought, was based in fear; fear of repeating his father's mistakes, fear of the unknown, fear of failure. Being absent would fail his child most of all.

_Be an adult_, he thought as he drove home. _Be a man_.

He didn't expect, upon arrival there, to find the place looking as if it had been abandoned. It was far too early for Bridget to be up and gone to work; in fact, the bed looked exactly as he'd left it, half-made, half in disarray. "Bridge?" he called as he walked through the place; he was beginning to seriously worry. Very soon he realised she was not there.

He reached in his pocket for his mobile, turned it on, and dialled her mobile. Where on earth could she be?

…

The morning light grew stronger, slowly rousing her from her slumber. It had been a long, solid sleep, full of peace and devoid of dreams, but upon waking, the events of the previous day washed over her.

Everything had changed. Everything was different. She was alone.

Before she could succumb to the sadness, she realised very quickly that someone was in the room with her. There on the chair, slumped over as if asleep, was a man. She squinted, blinked again, willing her irritated, puffy eyes to focus; it couldn't have been Daniel. Then she remembered with whom she had talked the night before. Who had brought her to hospital. Who had been by her side when her own husband couldn't be reached. It was Mark Darcy.

The slightest movement by her seemed to wake him, and in an instant he sat up and at attention, pushing the blanket to the side. "Morning," he said, almost as if he were embarrassed.

"It is," she said, then was swept over with a wave of emotion; her eyes welled with tears which she wiped away. "Sorry."

"Don't apologise. You've had a trauma." He rose then folded the blanket, setting it aside, and sat again. His trousers and shirt were wrinkled and mussed, and he was in need of a shave, but oddly enough, his slightly scruffy appearance was comforting. "Are you feeling a little better, at least physically?"

She nodded. "I'm sure they're doping me a little, or were." The IV was gone now. The nurses must have come in during the night to check on her. "A bit of a headache. And I'm… sore." She wrapped her arms around her midsection.

"I'd be happy to take you…" He paused. "Well, wherever you might want to go."

Where did she want to go? If she had to be perfectly honest with herself, she wanted to go to Grafton Underwood, but she knew her parents were out of town, or at least would be until sometime tonight. She sighed. "I should go home," she said.

Her mobile began to vibrate from her bedside. She palmed it; never had she been so pleased to see her mother's name pop up.

"Mum," she said, her throat seemingly closing on her, so deep did her grief strike her again.

"Bridget, darling, are you all right?" Her voice was fraught with worry. "Is Mark still there with you? Where is Daniel?"

She was momentarily perplexed. "Mum? Who—"

"Elaine tracked me down, and we're on our way home right now. We could come to you. You must be shattered."

"Mm-hmm," she said, then broke down in tears. She felt the phone gently being taken from her grasp. She heard Mark speak to her mother, then quietly disconnect.

"I apologise," he said. "I phoned my mother trying to track down your parents after you collapsed and—"

"Please," she said. "Don't keep apologising. I can never thank you for all you've done."

"I'll take you to Grafton Underwood. Does that sound all right?"

She laughed through her tears. At his quizzical look, she explained, "I really wanted to go to them but—"

Her mobile went off again. Mark still held it, and he glanced at the display. "It's Daniel."

Her heart dropped. She didn't really want to talk to him, but knew she must. Something about her expression must have prompted Mark to answer it, for which she was secretly thankful.

"Cleaver," he said neutrally, his gaze falling to where she sat on the bed. Mark listened to whatever it was Daniel was saying; it was surely unkind, given the way the sinews of Mark's jaw tensed and released. "Yes, I am in fact with your wife. She's in St Thomas'." A pause. "Yes, the hospital. That's why I was trying to reach you on her mobile last night, what I was trying to do when you told me to fuck off."

The room went dead silent. She held out her hand. "Let me talk to him," she said. Reluctantly he gave her mobile back to her.

"Daniel," she said.

"Bridge. What happened? Are you all right?"

She tamped down the emotion that was rising; strangely, while partly sadness, it was a great deal of anger she felt towards him. "I'm fine," she said. "Well, I'm not dying or paralysed or anything. But you…" She bit back the instinct she had to be cruel: _you won't have to worry about being a father anymore._ She took in a deep breath and said in the strongest voice she could muster, "I've lost the baby."

There was dead silence on the other end of the line. "Lost it?" he asked. His voice was actually trembling.

"A miscarriage," she said.

There was more silence. "God, Bridget," he said. "I'm sorry."

It wasn't exactly sorrow she heard in his voice, or regret, or even remorse for whatever part their argument yesterday may have played. What she heard mostly was… relief.

"I'm going to see my mum and dad," she said.

"I understand," he said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. "If there's anything I can do…. Do you want a lift?"

"That's covered," she said.

"Right," he said tersely. "Darcy."

She pursed her lips. "Please don't be like that."

"Sorry," he said again with a sigh; at least this one sounded sincere. "I would like to see you before you go to Grafton Underwood."

"I can't right now, Daniel. I'm sorry." The truth was, she couldn't bear it if he didn't look or didn't seem as emotionally wrecked as she was, and she suspected he wasn't.

He exhaled heavily. "That's fine, then," he said. "I'll, uh, clear out and go to the office for a while. That way you can come by and pick up a few things." He exhaled again. "About the fight. I am sorry for hurting you. I should have been more honest up front, but you were so happy… and I thought I should make the effort if it made you happy…."

She felt tears in her eyes again. She supposed the admission should count for something, and perhaps some day it would, but right now she was too distraught and betrayed to acknowledge it openly. Instead, she said nothing at all. Neither did. She knew at that moment with certainty that it was the end of their marriage, and the odd thing was, she was sure he knew it too.

"Well. The nurse is here to look me over," she said, fibbing a bit because she knew she wouldn't be able to sustain her calm much longer. "I'll call when I'm back to London. Please let them know at work I won't be in."

"I'll tell them you need the week." After a long pause, he said, "Goodbye, Bridget."

"Goodbye."

Bridget disconnected the phone as the tears came. She dropped the mobile to the bed, then buried her face in her hands. The bed sank beside her with Mark's weight, then his hand, warm and firm, was on her shoulder, and before she knew it she was in his embrace again. She was grateful for the support he was lending.

When the nurse did turn up, different than the one who had been attending the night before, he backed away and got to his feet. She reached for a tissue but found the box was empty. Mark was right there with a handkerchief, which she accepted with silent thanks then dried her eyes.

"Good morning, Mrs Cleaver," the nurse said in a bright yet serious voice. "And Mr Cleaver." Bridget could not stop from turning her gaze to Mark just in time to see a look of barely hidden disgust quickly disappearing from his features. "We'll just look you over and barring anything unusual, you'll be released."

"All right." She pushed back the blankets. Out of the warm cocoon of the covers and dressed only in a hospital gown, she shivered as the air in the room touched her exposed skin. She got to her feet, her legs a little unsteady from the lack of movement. After a few probing questions about how she felt and the taking and recording her vitals, Bridget was proclaimed fit to be released, but the staff needed to get paperwork processed before actually letting her go.

"We've got some counselling resources, if you need them, both of you," said the nurse. "I'll bring some pamphlets."

"That'd be very nice. Thank you."

With a smile the nurse departed. "You should cover up again," suggested Mark. "You look cold."

She did as he suggested. The nurse making mention of her somewhat imminent departure made her realise she should get dressed, which led her to wonder—"Where are my clothes?"

"That's an excellent question," said Mark, having a look around the room. "Oh, perhaps in that plastic carrier bag there. I'll have a look, shall I?"

"Okay," she said.

He opened the bag, poked around inside. "Yes, this does seem to contain your clothes." He furrowed his brow.

"What is it?"

He looked up to her, his expression unreadable. "I… don't think your skirt's fit to wear."

"Oh," she said. She supposed it probably wasn't, given what had happened.

"I could… go to a nearby shop or something, if you like."

There was a knocking on the door, followed immediately by the entrance of yet another nurse. "Mrs Cleaver," she said.

Bridget nodded.

She bore a familiar looking travel bag; Bridget realised it was her own. "A gentleman—your brother-in-law, maybe? Gave the name Cleaver—anyway, he just brought this by for you."

Mark accepted it on her behalf and thanked the nurse, then gave the bag over to Bridget as the nurse left. Inside was a pair of trackie bottoms, her favourite Bangor tee, her grey cardigan, pants, socks and trainers, as well as a handwritten note: _Enough to get to you to the flat. Thinking of you._

She set down the note and squeezed her eyes shut. She knew her emotions were still running high, and understandably so, but she didn't want this to make her cry.

"I'll step out into the hall so you can dress."

"No," she said, exhaling loudly. "I'll go into the loo. You're supposed to be my husband." At his confused expression, she gave him a little smile. "I would hardly kick my husband out into the hallway while I got dressed."

She swore he blushed a little, which broadened her smile.

Bridget took both bags into the loo with her in order to retrieve her bra out of the plastic sack. As she slipped out of the hospital gown, she thought about how much Mark had done for her already. "I could take the train up, Mark," she called to him. "You must have court or something."

"Nonsense," he replied, quickly and authoritatively. "I'll just phone Jeremy and tell him I need to take a day or two for personal reasons."

This made her think of Magda, of her friends, and of all of the people to whom she'd have to break the news. She found herself in floods of tears again.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Just more tears," she said in a wavering voice, clearing her throat and blowing her nose again with some of the loo roll. "I'm fine."

She used the toilet and realised very quickly why the staff had stocked sanitary towels nearby and had fixed one into her pants; she should have guessed why she had been sleeping on a plastic pad. She donned her clothes then examined herself in the mirror. She had definitely looked better, but didn't look as bad as she felt: her eyes looked red and irritated; her breasts were still tender; she had what felt like mild menstrual cramps; and the sanitary towel was causing an uncomfortable pressure between her thighs. In an effort to mitigate the damage, as it were, she washed her face then swatted powder onto it, which she retrieved from within her handbag. It didn't seem to make very much of a difference. She took a deep breath, then went back into the room with bags in hand to find his concerned gaze upon her.

"It's probably for the best you drive me. On the train I'd feel like a mental case with all eyes on me, what with bursting into sobs every other minute." Though said in jest, this made her start to cry again, but she quickly stifled her own tears.

"It's to be expected," he said. "I only wish there were more I could do to help."

"Mark, what _haven't_ you done? Like I said before, I don't know how I'll ever be able to thank you." She went to where he stood, took his hand and squeezed gently.

It was then that the nurse returned, allowing her release. They insisted on taking her to the hospital entrance in a wheelchair. "You can keep holding her hand if you like, sir," said the nurse to Mark. He tinted pink again, but took her hand all the same as they walked towards their destination. She found it oddly reassuring.

They made a brief stop to the Clink Street flat in order for her pack for a few days' stay with her parents; Daniel had kept his word and was not at home. She suggested he go to his house to get his own things in order while she packed.

"I'd rather not," he said. "In case he returns. We can just go there when you're done."

She was hardly in danger should Daniel return, but decided not to press the matter.

At Mark's house, he indicated she should sit and rest on the sofa while he changed clothes and shaved. It seemed she had only closed her eyes for a moment when he was gently rousing her shoulder and offering some coffee and pastry.

She sat up and smiled. "You keep these in the freezer, too?" she asked, accepting the chocolate croissant. "They're my guilty pleasure."

He smiled tenderly; he had changed into casual trousers and a cotton shirt, had obviously shaved and otherwise looked much refreshed. "I had a feeling they might be. I guessed at the coffee. I hope it's all right."

"It's fine," she said after a sip. "Thank you."

Once they finished they were on the road to Grafton Underwood. Mark's car was very comfortable, and she apologised to him in advance for the likely event of her dozing off. She noticed he had an overnight bag of his own as well as his attaché case. "You're not staying more than the night, are you?"

"I might. I've been meaning to help my father with some legal paperwork," he said. "No time like the present."

…

It wasn't entirely a lie; Mark did have some paperwork to go over with his father. The truth was, he wished to be at hand should she need him. It was a ridiculous contingency for which to plan, considering they were not married, not intimate, not even very close friends. Mark couldn't explain it fully to even himself. It just felt like the right thing to do, even if he could not pinpoint exactly why; it was just what one did when one cared about another's well-being.

Just as she predicted, Bridget slept a little more. This prompted him to consider the last twenty-four hours… or really, the last couple of months, because caring so much for her had not just sprung up overnight, if he really scrutinised the situation. What was it about her, precisely, that had caused him to so betray his long-standing mental list of what he thought he'd wanted in a woman?

He considered the situation analytically.

She was attractive. That much he'd noticed back in January, even though her clothing had left much to be desired. He liked that she had a figure; he knew the current modern ideal was to be stick thin and he had never been particularly attracted to that—quite probably why nothing had ever gone anywhere with Natasha.

She was witty. It was true that she was also a bit lacking with respect to an internal editor, but he had quickly realised that this trait was due to nervousness.

She was funny. Granted, many of the jokes she made were at her own expense, but he could only respect her for it. It was a refreshing change from arrogance and self-importance.

She was honest. At the dinner only two short nights ago, she hadn't tried to conform with the other women, and she hadn't tried to lie for Daniel to protect him.

She was genuine to the core. She clearly loved Constance and the children without pandering to them, and they loved her unconditionally. Children always seemed to know when adults were faking it; he had seen it with his own eyes on past occasions.

She had a huge, kind heart. Even though she'd had no responsibility to do so, she'd apologised for the misunderstanding stemmed by Daniel's lie, both that he'd told it, and that she'd believed it.

She had a generous spirit and an even temper. She could have savaged Daniel during her phone call to him and she hadn't. He doubted very much that his presence had any effect on her behaviour.

His only outstanding question at the conclusion of this enumeration of her best qualities was: _Why wasn't this my list in the first place?_

She was, however, currently married, and therefore well out of bounds. There was also the matter of to whom she was married. This presently concerned him less than it probably should have, and the very fact that he had feelings at all concerned him less than it should have; under normal circumstances, it would have alarmed him. However, he felt too at peace, emotionally speaking, to allow these complications to trouble him. Working out details was a matter for future consideration. Right now he could only think he had at last admitted to himself that he was in love with her, and it was freeing.

"Are we almost there?"

Her soft voice interrupted his thoughts; he realised they were nearly halfway there, and he told her so. "Why? Do we need to stop?"

Her hand rested on her stomach. "Yeah, we should."

The next town was Stevenage, one in which he had often stopped for a coffee or just to stop to stretch his legs during the drive north. He found what he thought might be an obliging business and bought some coffee drinks for them as she ducked towards the back of the establishment with her handbag. A few minutes after the drinks were done—an espresso for himself, and a light, frothy cappuccino for her—she still hadn't emerged, and he was just starting to worry when she appeared.

"All's well?" he asked.

She nodded. "I'm just having—" She stopped abruptly. "After effects, shall we say."

He didn't know, and didn't want to know. "But nothing to be concerned about, I trust?"

"No, it's fine," she said.

"I thought you might like something to drink, so…" He handed her the cappuccino. "Hope you like these."

At the sight of the foam on top she started to tear up again. He was just about to ask what was wrong when she spoke. "Sorry, it's lovely of you," she said. "I was… just on my way to get a capp when… I fell."

"I'm sorry, Bridget."

She waved her hand in a gesture suggesting he shouldn't blame himself. "There are bound to be little emotional landmines, Mark," she said. "I don't expect you to anticipate them all. I'm not even sure I can." She smiled with a little sniff, then touched his upper arm reassuringly. "I really do appreciate it. It smells wonderful. I'll just put a cover on it and we can go."

"All right."

Together they walked back to his vehicle. It was still morning, but it was already getting rather warm. "Sorry," he said. "Perhaps I should have ordered that iced."

"Mark," she said with mock sternness. "Stop bloody apologising."

He smiled as he walked around to the passenger door to open it for her. Even though they were so close to words spoken what felt like a lifetime ago by a woman who had tried to graft herself to his side, it was refreshing to get even the smallest glimpse of the real Bridget, a lively, playful reply instead of the woman who'd been in a state of mourning (and understandably so) for the last day. "Won't happen again," he said, then winked. "Sorry."

This made her laugh lightly again.

The remainder of the drive was relatively quiet; she didn't sleep again, but seemed pensive, so he was content to allow her the relative silence but for the quiet strains of classical music.

She shifted in her seat abruptly. He asked, "Do you need to stop again?"

She made a small sound of amusement. "I'm fine," she said, "except for feeling a bit guilty. We're always talking about me, and I'd really like to think about something else than my—than me. What about you? How are you?"

He cleared his throat; his thoughts immediately reeled back to his earlier revelation. "I've been well, thanks," he said; he didn't honestly know what else to say.

She seemed to sense this, and she chuckled. "What about work? How's that going? I'm not even sure I know enough about what you do to ask for details."

"Most of what I do would likely bore you to—bore you rigid," he said, correcting himself from referencing 'tears'.

"I'm not that fragile a flower, Mark," she said with a smile, catching the slip. "I'm very aware I've been crying."

He laughed low in his throat. "Anyway, work's a lot of paper shuffling, reading, researching," he said. "Making passionate arguments is really a very small percentage of what I do. Most of it is quite tedious and dull."

She smiled, then looked down. "You must really love it if you do it despite it being tedious and dull."

"I do," he said. "It's… fulfilling."

"Hmm," she said. "Though probably a little depressing."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, you probably see people when they've been through hell and back. Refugees from horrible regimes, or mistreatment for being a woman and so on. It's probably pretty depressing to see what human beings do to one another on a regular basis."

"I could let it get me down," he said, "but if I did I probably wouldn't have lasted very long in this profession. I choose instead to see that I can work to help make a difference, both for those I can directly effect, and those who'll benefit in the future."

She didn't respond right away, and when he glanced over he saw she was smiling at him. "It's nice," she said. "Befriending someone who actually has altruistic intentions, I mean. Them… _me_…"

It felt anything but altruistic to him, but he couldn't well say so. "It's what friends are for," he said.


	6. Chapter 6

**It's a Nice Day to Start Again**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 78,546  
Chapters: 11 + epilogue  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

Sorry so late, and sorry if I haven't replied to your review. I have a major work deadline on Tuesday. :P

* * *

Chapter 6.

_Mon, 24 Jul_  
_(cont.)_

It was comforting to be surrounded by everything familiar and cosy, and walking through the front door of her parents' home, affectionately referred to as The Gables for as long as they'd lived there, brought tears to Bridget's eyes. She felt reassurance all around her. It had been the right choice to come home.

She heard her mother's voice almost as if it were far away, even though she was the one guiding her to sit on the family sofa. "We are beyond grateful, Mark, for everything you've done for Bridget," she said. "If you're not in too much of a hurry to get back to London, we'd love it if you could come for supper."

"Actually, I'm going to spend some time at my parents'," Mark replied, his voice equally distant to her ears, "so yes, I'd like that very much."

"Why didn't Daniel bring you?" asked her father, who was instantly beside her and took her hand. It was obvious to Bridget he was holding his temper in check; after all, her husband should have been the one there, not just a friend. "Where is he?"

"He's in London," she said. "I didn't want to see him just yet." Her eyes welled yet again, and she blinked rapidly to try to keep the tears at bay.

The lines smoothed from his features; his eyes twinkled with kindness. "We can talk later," her father replied, then took her in his arms for a hug; as he did, she felt her reserve dissolve, her adulthood disappear, and she was reduced to nothing more than a weeping, wounded girl in the safe and protective arms of her dad. "My poor poppet," he said softly. "You must be devastated."

She nodded, then clung to him and cried herself to sleep, waking only when the delicious scent of her mother's home cooking pervaded her dreams, from which she was all too happy to wake. It had not been pleasant to dream that she was running around London looking for a mythical baby she'd lost in a shop. Tears were sliding down her cheeks; she wiped her face dry and took in a deep breath. Her mum or dad had thoughtfully left her a box of tissue, so she reached for one, finished wiping her face dry, then blew her nose.

"You're up, darling, good. I was just about to wake you." It was her mother, who looked like she too had been crying, but was now putting on a brave face for her daughter. "I don't know if you remember but I've asked Mark Darcy back for supper for everything he's done." She came to sit beside Bridget, then took her hand. "Is there anything I can do?"

She smiled, emotions rising again. "Just… being here for me is doing so much, Mum." After a moment she added tenderly, "But a hug wouldn't hurt, either."

Her mother smiled, then reached and pulled Bridget into an embrace. "I never told you," said her mother quietly, "but I miscarried once."

"Mum?" she asked, pulling back; this had caught her completely off guard.

Pam nodded. "A couple of years before you came along," she said. "It was so very difficult, but I can promise you I know what you're feeling… and that it gets better over time."

At hearing this news Bridget burst into fresh sobs and reached to hug her mother tightly. In her eyes this new information cast her mother in a whole new light. "My God! I'm so sorry I never knew," she said.

Pam chuckled, but her voice was emotional when she spoke. She stroked her daughter's back, gently rocking her (perhaps instinctively) from side to side. "Of course you didn't—we never told you. But I thought you would want to know that you're not alone." Her mother then pecked a kiss firmly on her cheek.

Bridget thought of her dad, her mum, even Mark Darcy. She realised she now felt far from alone.

The doorbell rang and Pam pulled away abruptly. "That'll be our guest," she said brightly, pulling a tissue and patting under her eyes. She then rose to answer the door.

As Mark came into the house she pushed back the blanket got to her feet. "Hi again," she said.

"Hello," he said.

She realised she was in the same place in which he'd left her hours ago, and that she needed the loo with some urgency. "I just had a nap so…"

"It's really all right," he said.

"…I'll, uh, be right back."

"Okay," he said, looking slightly perplexed.

"It's not you, I promise." Lowering her voice, she explained, "After effects."

"Oh." He nodded and smiled in understanding just as her father offered him some wine.

"I'll have some too," said Bridget. "Be back soon."

Having to relieve herself (and checking to make sure disaster was not impending) was only part of the reason she ducked upstairs. She checked in her room and found her bag, which she took with her to the loo.

"Oh, Bridget, are you all right?"

It was her mother, being forgivably over-attentive.

"Oh, yes, I'm fine." After a moment, she asked, "How imminent is dinner? I never got a chance to shower since… I left the hospital."

"Oh, darling, you take your time and wash up. A nice hot shower can make a world of difference. You know what else will help boost your spirits? Something nice to wear."

Bridget considered what she'd thrown into the bag for her time in Grafton Underwood; aside from her sponge bag, a toothbrush, her diary, and a few magazines that had come in Friday's post that he hadn't had a chance to peruse yet, all she'd brought, aside from some smalls, were some trackie bottoms, tee-shirts, her favourite cardigan and, in case the temperature got unruly, a couple of loose-fitting casual cotton dresses for sitting out in the garden. "Mum, I didn't exactly think to pack for entertaining…"

"Oh, nonsense. You can wear that summery dress that always made you look lovely. You know. The pale blue seersucker."

She did know to which one her mother referred… she had loved that dress in her twenties, but now in her mind's eye, it seemed too girlish and unsuitable. Then again, it was not as if she was trying to impress anyone, particularly Mark, who had already seen her at her absolute worst and was only a friend anyway.

"Trust your mother, Bridget," Pam went on, tapping the side of her nose. "I'll find it and lay it out for you, and I'll let them know."

Bridget smiled. She loved when this side of her mother showed, especially when she wasn't trying to fix her up with someone. By the same token, she hoped Mark would see Pam as more than the busybody he'd met on New Year's. "All right."

She used the loo (finding that not much had changed there; at least she'd been able to graduate from uncomfortable sanitary napkins), then she got a fresh, clean towel from the linen cupboard and turned the taps until the water was as hot as she could stand it. As she stepped into the shower, she sighed with pleasure as the water sluiced over her head. Thought it felt wonderful to have this cascade rushing over her skin, soothing her aches and cleansing her body and soul, she didn't want to stay in too long. Dinner was waiting, after all.

She lathered and conditioned her hair, soaped up and scrubbed her skin, shaved her legs; she felt better than she had all day. Upon exiting, she dried herself with the soft white towel, rubbing at her hair then combing it back away from her face. Wrapping the towel around herself, she opened the bathroom door, poked her head out, grabbed her bag, then made a dash for her room.

There, spread out on the pristinely made bed, was her once-favourite dress, made of pale blue seersucker in a vaguely A-line shape. The sleeves were capped but not so tight that they were unflattering. At least she hoped they weren't too tight; it had been a while since she'd actually worn the thing.

After fishing out some fresh pants and a bra, she slipped the dress over her head and pulled it down into place. She popped on a pair of jelly mules that had languished forgotten in the bottom of the closet there—they still fit, too—then dug out her sponge bag to put on a little powder and a bit of mascara.

Before heading downstairs, she took a moment to look at herself in the full length mirror, and found to her delight that she was smiling a little, miraculous given the events of the last day. Her mother had been right. Dressing up a little was exactly what she'd needed.

She decided she was ready for supper.

…

"It's good to hear from you," came the gentle, comforting voice. "It always amazes me how it sounds like you're right here next to me."

Daniel Cleaver sank back into the comfort of his sofa, taking a long drag on his cigarette, something he hadn't done in house since his return. He had the lights down low and a glass of wine on the table in front of him.

"I needed to hear your voice," he said quietly. "Needed to talk to you."

There was a pause. "What's wrong?"

Daniel took another long drag, then exhaled at length. "She lost the baby."

"What? No! Oh, Daniel. I'm sorry." After a beat, "It's understandable you're feeling bad."

He chuckled. "This is part of the problem," he said. "I feel bad about not feeling worse. I mean… you know I've always been middling at best at the prospect of being a father. The reality of it had me in a near panic." He drew in more smoke, allowed the wisps to drift up and gently caress his face as he spoke. "I think we're over. Bridget and me."

"I thought you loved her."

"The funny thing is, I do. Or at least I think I do. I don't fucking know anymore."

"Daniel, language."

He laughed mirthlessly. "Sorry, Mum."

"So if you love her," she said, "why is it you think it's over?"

"She wants children," he said.

"And you don't."

"Yeah, I don't think I do," he said, stubbing out the end. "Sorry."

"You don't have to apologise to me," she said. "While I have no regrets about you, I of all people understand." There was a moment where neither spoke, both undoubtedly thinking of the past, of Daniel's father. "Still," she continued; Daniel drank down some wine. "I don't know Bridget that well, but I like her. Maybe you're wrong, though. Maybe she isn't as wild about having kids as you think."

"No, Mum. She is." He lit another cigarette. "The flat'll be dull without her."

"Don't be so pessimistic," she said.

"I'm just being realistic," he said.

He'd been right from the start. Bridget was too good for him. He said his goodbyes with a promise to take care of himself and to call soon. He rang off and reclined with the wine in hand, swirling it in the glass before knocking it down in one swallow. The silence seemed to echo around him.

He missed her already.

…

Upon entering the house, Mark had been overwhelmed by the savoury scent of their dinner wafting from the kitchen. He hadn't realised until that moment quite how little he'd eaten since the previous day, and looked very much forward to the meal.

Bridget had looked sleepy but slightly more refreshed; the nap she'd taken during his absence seemed to have done her some good. Pam Jones had followed her upstairs and when Pam had returned she'd advised that Bridget needed a little time and that they'd delay dinner waiting for her.

He understood perfectly.

Colin Jones brought him a glass of wine, a second for Bridget and a generous bowl of mixed nuts, which he set down on the table between them. "Tide us over for a bit," he said with a genial smile, lifting his bitter to his lips for a sip.

"Thank you, sir," he said in response, picking up a macadamia from the bowl.

"Well, it's been said before, but let me say it again: thank you for what you've done for us. For Bridget, really."

"It was, I hope, what anyone would have done in my place," Mark said. "I'm just glad I happened to be where I was, _when_ I was."

"So Pam told me that the hospital thought you were her husband. Is that true?"

"It is," he affirmed. "I would never have perpetrated the falsehood had I been able to get hold of Daniel."

"Ah, yes. Daniel." His features clouded over. "Tell me, Mark. Did she really tell him she didn't want to see him?"

"Yes," Mark said. "I overheard her say so, myself."

Her father sat back in the seat. "Be honest with me, Mark," he said after some contemplation. "Daniel wasn't responsible for what happened, was he? Didn't push her around, didn't—_hurt_ her?"

Mark thought about what she'd said, how the pain he'd inflicted had not been of the physical sort, and how a protective father might interpret her desire not to see or speak to her husband in the worst possible light. "No, sir, she assures me he didn't, and I believe her. I've known him a long time. He doesn't lash out in a violent manner." _Just a verbal one_, he added mentally.

Mark caught Colin smirking a little. "So I don't have to track him down and sock him in the face?"

Mark did not reply, because he was too tempted to respond in an uncharitable way. Instead he raised his wine glass in order to take a sip but paused when movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention, and he turned his head.

Clad in a light blue cotton dress, Bridget appeared in the foyer. Her hair was down and for a moment he was perplexed because it was darker than he recalled, but realised it was because it was damp. She was smiling though; it wasn't a broad smile, but it was there, indicating a lifting of mood, however small.

"Poppet, there you are." Her father went to her and gave her a hug. For a moment Mark thought her barefoot, but it was just that she was wearing shoes of a clear rubber material. "You're looking so much better."

"Thanks, Dad." She pulled away, then turned her gaze towards Mark. "Hi. Hope you got a lie down before, too."

He offered a smile in return. He had taken a brief nap then had taken the time to properly wash up before dressing and driving back to the Jones' house. "I did, thanks."

"Your mother made a nice roasted garlic chicken with mushroom stuffing," said Colin. "And I didn't forget your wine."

She laughed as her father reached for the glass and handed it to her. "Thanks." She looked to Mark again, her eyes kind, her smile widening before she brought her wine up to her lips for a sip. "Come on, I think it's time to eat."

Mark didn't know if it was just that he was exceptionally hungry, but he thought the dinner that Pam Jones had prepared was outstanding; while they ate, very little conversation happened, so he suspected he was not alone in feeling that it was very good. He did notice how kind and… well, _normal_ her mother seemed compared to the gherkin-offering matchmaker he'd met on New Year's Day.

"They'll give you a few days off from work, I hope," her mother asked unexpectedly as they wound down from the veritable feeding frenzy.

Bridget nodded as she sipped her wine. "Daniel said he'd arrange the week." To Mark's surprise she looked directly at him. "I have another favour to ask, if you don't mind."

"I'd be happy to," he said without hesitation.

"My friends," she said. He saw her eyes gloss over again. "I want them to know what happened; they're my… urban family of sorts and I don't like keeping things from them, but right now… I can't bear the thought of repeating the story again."

"Understandable," he said. "Just give me their numbers."

"If you can just ring up Magda, she can ring up Tom, Jude and Shazzer."

He nodded. "Certainly."

"Thanks," she said, smiling again.

As her father cleared away the plates (insisting that Mark remain seated, as he was their guest), her mother offered to bring out dessert. When her parents left for the kitchen, he swore he saw Bridget visibly sink into her chair, saw her smile fade a little; only then did he realise that she had been putting on a bit of a show, trying to project more cheerfulness than she actually felt.

She noticed that he observed this relaxation of her control. "I don't want them to worry," she said sheepishly.

"Let them take care of you," Mark said gently. "They want to."

She sniffed, then nodded. "I know."

"Care for tea, Mark?" called Pam's voice from the kitchen.

"Yes, please," he returned. He then said quietly to Bridget, "There's no need to pretend you haven't been though one of the most difficult things someone can go through."

"I know," she said again. "I just don't want to be bursting into tears at the site of a pram, which I can't guarantee wouldn't happen if I went out right now and saw one."

"It only just happened yesterday," he reminded, meeting her gaze. "Give yourself time. Be easy on yourself." He reached forward to pat what he was certain (out of the corner of his eye) was her hand.

It was not.

Peals of laughter erupted from her as he withdrew his fingers from the gravy boat, feeling himself colour scarlet as he brought them up to wipe them on the napkin. "Sorry," he said.

"Please, don't," she said. "It feels good to laugh, even if it is at your expense—for that I'm sorry."

"Then I retract the apology," he said, "because getting a little gravy on my fingers was worth hearing you laugh like that."

"What on earth's going on in here?" asked Pam as she returned with a delicious-looking sugar-topped tea cake.

"Revenge of the gravy," said Bridget.

Pam turned and offered a smile to Mark. The fact that he was still examining his fingers for evidence of mushroom gravy must have suggested to her what had happened. To his surprise he saw Pam mouth the words "Thank you" to him.

"Don't go having all the fun out here without the tea," said Colin, who came out with a tray bearing a large pot of steeping tea, four teacups, and a sugar bowl and creamer jug. "My mistake," he said, coming to near to Mark. "I missed clearing the gravy boat."

"Mark didn't, apparently," teased Pam, winking.

As Pam parcelled out the tea cake and Colin poured tea, Bridget explained that her grandmother, Pam's mother, had been a domestic science teacher. "Really much more going on in Mum's kitchen, usually, than olives and silver-skin onions," Bridget said.

"If I haven't already complimented dinner," Mark said, "allow me to do so with your excellent dessert. A man would be hard pressed to work any late nights knowing a meal like this was waiting for him." As soon as he said it he realised how chauvinistic it sounded. "Sorry, I didn't mean…"

"I take the compliment in the spirit that's it's offered," said Pam with mock-formality, "and thank you for it."

"I don't think I worked a single night past six before I retired," Colin mused, then ate a bite of the tea cake. "Outdone yourself, Pam."

Pam beamed to her husband.

"Yes, Mum, quite good."

"Thank you, darling," Pam said.

"So cooking genius runs in the family, does it?" asked Mark.

To his surprise, her parents burst out with a little laugh.

"Unfortunately, Bridget didn't _quite_ inherit the cooking gene," Pam said with a wink.

"Mother," said Bridget, apparently wounded. "I'm not _that_ bad."

"Oh, dumpling, we can't all be perfect," said her dad; he leaned and put an arm around her shoulders, then pecked a kiss on her cheek. She seemed mollified, for which he was glad. Mark looked away, though; he did not wish it to be obvious that he longed to do the same.

By the time he was finished with the tea and cake he felt like he just might burst. "It's probably for the best that I don't eat a meal that marvellous every night," he said as he pushed back from the table. "Otherwise I could never play enough five-a-side in the world to work it off."

This caused them all to smile and chuckle a little.

"I'm very glad you enjoyed it, Mark," said Pam. "It still feels so inadequate a thank-you."

"It's more than adequate," he said. He saw Bridget fighting a yawn, and with that cue he knew it was time to end the evening; nap or not she must have been exhausted. "I should be going. Thank you once more for a lovely evening." He got to his feet. "Please, no need get up. I can see myself out."

They each rose anyway. "Don't be silly, Mark," said Pam. "I'll see you out."

"No, Mum, I will," said Bridget. "I could use a little fresh air anyway."

Mark walked to the door and opened it; her comment suggested she was coming outside with him. He guessed right. It was still dusky twilight despite being after eight in the evening. Folding her arms almost to rub her upper arms with her hands, she walked with him down the drive towards his the car.

"Funny, I feel like I should be pulling out a fag, but… it still seems like I shouldn't anyway."

"Maybe you should stay off cigarettes," he said. "Better for your health in the long run."

"Yeah, maybe," she said. She turned, tilted her head, looked at him. "I just wanted to thank you again." He opened his mouth to say she needn't keep doing so, but she held up her hand to belay his speech. "I know, I know. But I am very grateful, and I'll never forget your kindness over the last day."

"You're welcome, again," he said in response. "However, let's agree that after tonight no more 'thank you's are necessary… that I consider the kindness paid in full."

She chuckled. "Agreed, then," she said. "Well, except for this." She reached up, threw her arms around him, pecked his cheek as he'd only thought about, then hugged him. "You've been such a very good friend, and I'm glad we worked out our differences," she said.

He reciprocated the hug. "I am too," he said, grateful for her extroversion.

She stepped back. "Well. Drive safely home."

"I will," he said. "You take care of yourself."

"Don't forget to call Magda."

"I won't. I'll do it as soon as I'm back to my parents'."

"Okay." She smiled again. "Night."

He watched as she retreated, and said softly, "Goodnight, Bridget."

…

When Bridget came in out of the chilly night air, she noticed that her mother was there waiting for her. She drew her brows together. "There really isn't any need to watch my every move, Mum," she said, trying to effect a light tone. "I'm not going to run off into the night."

"It's not that, Bridget," she said. Her expression seemed very serious. "You don't see it?"

"See… what?"

"Be careful, darling," Pam said soberly. "I think Mark may be in love with you."

She laughed in her disbelief. "That's silly. He's not. Don't think that just because he's responsible and does things for unselfish reasons."

Pam pursed her lips. "I don't think I'm being silly," she said. "Just… the way he was looking at you…"

"He's just being kind," she said, then smiled. "I know you like to think that every man being kind to me must be falling in love with me…"

"Bridget, I don't," she said. "I just don't want him to misread when you give him a hug."

_She _was _spying on me_, thought Bridget; it was difficult to be angry though. "Please don't worry. He knows it was just appreciation."

"If you say so," said Pam. "Still…."

Bridget decided to let it go, and gave her mother a hug. "Was a great dinner, Mum. A really nice night. Thank you so much."

"Of course, darling," she replied. "Anything for you."

They pulled apart. "I'm going to go to my room and read a little, then go to sleep. I'm still so knackered."

Her mother nodded. "Understandable. Just give a shout if you want anything."

She found her father picking at the tea cake in the kitchen, gave him a hug and kiss goodnight, then went upstairs to get ready for bed. As she and her bag went from the loo back to her room, she caught a snatch of conversation wafting up from the sitting room.

"I thought you liked Mark." Her father.

"Well, I do, and that's just it. I mean, Bridget's very vulnerable right now, and still married, I don't have to remind you."

"Give her a little credit, and him," said Colin. "He's got a good head on his shoulders. If he cares about her even a little bit, even as a just friend, he's not going to do anything foolish."

Loud exhale from her mother. "I'm not saying he would, Colin," she said. "I think because I do like him I don't want to see him inadvertently hurt. He is a genuinely nice fellow."

Silence, then: "He is, isn't he?"

Bridget went into her room and closed the door. She had to concede that it was possible his feelings for her were a bit more than just friendship, but wasn't it often the case that caregivers developed irrational feelings of attraction and even love for those for whom they are caring? It was nothing, she decided. He was just experiencing natural feelings of protectiveness and worry, maybe, _possibly_, confusing them with love.

Still, she would probably want to keep herself in check. Her parents were right; Mark was a good person, and she would have hated to hurt him, even unintentionally.

…

"I'll be sure to pass on your condolences," said Mark, speaking on his mobile to Magda. "I'm sure you're right. I'm sure she would prefer some time alone."

"I'm shattered for her," said Magda sadly. "Just _shattered_. Of course I'll call our friends for her, and ask them to give her some space."

"She specified Sharon, Tom and Jude by name," Mark said.

"I'd better limit it to them, then. Mark, thank you for taking care of her," Magda said. "Damn that husband of hers. I'm sure it's on him. Oh, he might not have been there, might not have pushed her down a flight of stairs, but it's on him all the same." Mark would not have worded it so strongly, but he had to admit he felt Daniel's harshness had contributed somehow. "Sorry," continued Magda. "That doesn't really help at all, does it? I may not like him, but I'm sure he never would have wanted _this_."

"I'm sure you're right," he said wearily. The conflicting feelings were ones with which he had been fighting internally. "Well, I've had a rather long day," Mark said. "I'll let you get on with your calls."

"I'll bet you have," Magda said. "It was so good of you to take care of her. I'm sure she's very grateful."

He thought of Bridget's parting hug. "She is."

"Goodnight, Mark."

"Goodnight."

He ended the call, then pocketed his mobile and sighed. Everyone kept telling him how much he had done for her; all he could think of was wanting to do more.

"Mark, if I didn't know better, I'd think _you_ were her husband."

His father Malcolm's voice startled him; he'd thought his parents had already retired for the night.

"Didn't mean to alarm you," Malcolm went on.

"It's all right," he said. "Out of curiosity, why would you say that?"

"Well, you are behaving rather oddly," he said. "Like you had a personal stake in this, or something."

"That's…" He was about to say it wasn't true, but he did have a personal stake. "I'm doing what any friend would do, and she didn't want to see her husband."

"That's exactly what I mean," said Malcolm. "Goodnight, son."

Malcolm went upstairs, and as he retreated from view Mark thought his father had the right idea. It had been a very long day and he was exhausted.

The universe had other ideas, though; his phone began vibrating again. He pulled it out, looked at the incoming number. It looked vaguely familiar, so he answered the call.

"What I had to do to dig up your number," said the voice on the other end. It was Daniel. "As tempted as you might be to hang up, please don't."

"What do you want?"

"I was in shock before, truly I was. So let me apologise for being such an accusatory arse when you did so much for Bridget."

He wasn't sure how to answer, then decided to just be honest: "I thought only of helping her."

"I deserve that," Daniel said. "I deserve anything you can heap on me after the way I unloaded on her."

Mark felt his temper rising. "What _did_ you say to her?"

Daniel blew air out from between his lips, possibly exhaling cigarette smoke. "That it had been a mistake, that I should never be a father. That I should have gotten myself fixed years ago."

Mark winced.

"I know. Very bad. I regret it, and I regretted it even _before_ I'd learnt what happened." There was a pause, probably taking a drag on his cigarette. "Just tell me how she is. How she's doing."

"She's doing about as you'd expect after such a devastating life event." He paused. "But I think physically she'll be all right. She just needs a little time."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it."

Mark went on; he fought to restrain his temper as he did. "Mentally is another story. She was delighted to be expecting a child. No doubts, no reservations. Then she learns that you have no desire at all to be a father, you suggest that you wish it had never been conceived, and then she loses it. So what now? Hmm?"

Daniel did not respond immediately. "You seem to be extremely eager to know how I'd answer, Darce. Full-on barrister mode, you are."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Mark. "I'm just pointing out that one of you will need to bend to go on."

"It does seem a rather untenable position for a future together, doesn't it?" he asked in response. "I'm sure you'd like that."

"For God's sake," he said angrily, both for Daniel's tone and what he was implying he knew as fact, "this is not about me."

Daniel went silent again for many moments. "Darce," he said at last. "As much as I care about Bridget, probably even love her… I can't bring a child into the world just to make her happy. It's not fair to anyone involved."

Mark exhaled, leaning against the table there in the foyer. If ever there had been a case for irreconcilable differences…. "That leaves the question remaining: what now?"

"I suppose we'll split," he said. "Know any good divorce lawyers?"

As Daniel said this, Mark realised that Daniel may well have been intoxicated. "I have to go, Cleaver."

"Give her my love," said Daniel.

"Goodnight."

Mark disconnected. He debated turning his phone off, but thought better of it on the possibility that Bridget called him; instead, he added Daniel's number to his address book. That way if he called again, Mark could instantly identify the caller and thus ignore the call.

…

_Tues, 25 Jul_

Mark's thoughts upon waking were how he might contrive to visit Bridget without seeming overbearing or obvious; the last thing he wanted was to come on too strong when he only wanted to be a good friend. As he entered the kitchen that morning to acquire breakfast his questions were answered: a plate full of chocolate chip biscuits sat there, along with the hand-written note from his mother.

_Mark, your father and I went out to a rotary luncheon. If you'd be so good as to take these over to Bridget… we want her to know we're thinking of her._

Given their conversation the previous night, he wondered if this home-baked offering hadn't been his father's suggestion. He also considered that if this were the case, his father had not shared that conversation with his wife. While his mother had been the one to display matchmaking tendencies in the past, she never would have thought to try anything while one of the players involved was suffering extreme emotional trauma.

Regardless… Bridget would appreciate the thought, and the biscuits as well.

Since it was barely ten in the morning, he decided a leisurely breakfast over the morning paper would do no harm; when he finished he went upstairs for a shower, a shave and to dress for the summer day it was, he headed out with the plate of biscuits and his mother's note in tow.

As he approached the house he wondered if he should have phoned first, as it did not look like anyone was awake or possibly that no one was even home. Reluctantly he rang the doorbell.

He saw movement beyond the rippled glass of the front door, which swung aside in very short order. "Oh, hi." It was Bridget; she looked quite sleep-rumpled and was dressed in a summery sleeveless cotton nightgown. She was devoid of cosmetics, and ran her fingers through her hair. She stepped aside and grabbed her grey cardigan to slip on. "Come in. I was just fixing something to eat—oh! What's that?" She had spotted the biscuit plate.

"From my mother," Mark said, holding it up for her to take. "You can read the note."

"This is very kind of her," she said, tearing up a bit at the sight of the note. "My mum and dad went to the same luncheon, I think. Left me a note though they didn't think I'd wake before they returned." She sniffed at the cling film covered plate. "Oh, they smell fantastic."

"Perhaps I should…" he began, looking out to his vehicle; he wasn't sure if it was right for him to remain there alone with her.

"No, there's no need for you to go," she said with a kind smile. "I don't need to be chaperoned. Besides, I'll regret eating all of these myself."

"If you insist," he said, "I'd be happy to stay a little while."

She put on some coffee while he peeled back the cling film covering the plate of biscuits. Within fifteen minutes they were seated at the kitchen table, eating biscuits and sipping coffee out of mismatched, oddly patterned mugs.

"You don't suppose we did this a long time ago, do you?" Bridget asked.

"Pardon?"

"When we were kids," she said. "Biscuits at the kitchen table."

"Not with coffee, obviously," said Mark.

She laughed. "God, I'd hope not, though that might explain a few things."

He chuckled too. "If we did share a plate of biscuits, it was a rare occurrence. My mother tells me that you and your family didn't move to Grafton Underwood until you were… six, I believe. I have a recollection of this just prior to my leaving for Eton."

"That explains why I don't have any memory of it at all, particularly not of the paddling pool palaver." She drew her brows together. "So if we weren't living in Grafton Underwood, how did I end up in your paddling pool?"

"Your parents came down from Buckinghamshire to visit, if my recollection of my mother's explanation is correct. My mother helped convince yours to move here."

"It's probably for the best that I can't remember," said Bridget.

"There's always the film reel," reminded Mark.

She chuckled again. "Right, you did tell me about that."

"Shocking footage," he said jokingly. "Drinking and smoking even then."

"You liar," she said, smirking, though he swore she tinted pink at the suggestion.

"I'm glad I didn't remind you about having no clothes on." Though said and meant in jest, as soon as the words escaped his mouth he regretted them. It seemed a little too risqué given the circumstances, hearing them aloud. "Sorry. I…"

She made a dismissive sound, then smiled abashedly. "No, that I believe. Half the pictures in the my baby album are of me running around without a dress on."

He smiled again; he did not doubt her words for a minute. "I could bring by the—well, I think it's a videotape. Hasn't been converted to digital yet."

"It's okay. My parents still have their VTR." She bit into another biscuit. "And yes, by the way, I'd like to see that, as would my parents, I think. Can you do that this—oh, are you going back to London today?"

"I would be happy to come back later with it, perhaps after supper."

"That sounds like a plan."

Before too long there was one biscuit left from the dozen; even if Mark still felt remotely hungry, he would not have dared to take it. "I believe that's yours," he said, gesturing to the nearly empty plate.

She almost looked embarrassed. "I'm sure I've eaten more than you."

"They _were_ for you," he reminded.

Reluctantly she reached for the biscuit. "Tell your mum thanks a million," she said, taking a neat bite from the side.

"My pleasure."

As she ate and sipped at her coffee, her gaze drifted towards the open window. "It looks nice outside."

"The weather's very pleasant."

"I think I want to go outside for a while," she said. "After hospital, then a long car drive—no offence; it's a lovely car—then being cooped up in here all day and night… I'm getting a bit of cabin fever."

"A walk?" he asked.

She shook her head as she grimaced a bit. "Still ache too much. It feels a bit like I'm having the world's worst—" She stopped short, flushing bright red. "Sorry. That's probably a bit too much information."

He smiled gently. "It takes a lot more than that to put me off."

"I'm glad," she said. "If you're not busy, can you sit in the garden with me?" She pulled the corner of her mouth into a half-hearted smile and added, "I don't want to be by myself."

Truthfully, the one thing he'd planned to do whilst in the country involved someone currently at the Rotary luncheon, but he didn't want to impose himself on her so much. It seemed somehow improper, as if he were taking advantage of the situation or her vulnerable state. However, the plaintive edge to her voice could not be ignored. "I'll stay at least until your parents return."

She smiled. "Thanks. I'm just gonna…" She turned and pointed towards the egress. "Er, get properly dressed."

"Take your time. I'll wait here."

…

If her mother was correct, Bridget thought as she made her way up the stairs leading to her room, then asking Mark to stay might well be sending the wrong message to him, but the truth was she was feeling a bit selfish. She liked very much having someone with whom to talk, and if the previous two days had been any indication, he had well proven himself a good and loyal friend. If left to her own devices, left all on her own, she'd likely start to dwell on how everything had begun to unravel in the space of just a few days. Not just the baby—no bigger than the end of her finger, she'd been told—though of course that was an overwhelmingly large part of it. No, that coupled with the stunning realisation she'd been deluding herself about her whirlwind 'perfect' marriage and about the man she called husband—

She drew in a quick breath, shoring herself up, pressing her forefinger and thumb into the corners of her eyes. She knew someday she'd think back on this, still with a sense of loss and sadness, but disassociated from the unstoppable emotional wave that sent grief-stricken tears streaming from her eyes, sent her lower lip to quivering.

_Get dressed, Bridget_, she scolded herself, _and get back down there._

From the vantage point through her bedroom window, she could see plainly that the sun was out and bright, and a leisurely breeze sent the leaves to rustling. She discarded the nightshirt, put on her smalls, then pulled on one of the casual cotton dresses she'd packed. She slipped into the jelly mules then gave herself a quick look in the mirror. She looked a bit gaunt and sallow with dark circles under her eyes, and though she'd looked worse, her vanity was beginning to return, and she cringed to think what he must have thought of her appearance. She patted at her face with some face powder in the hopes that it would even out the blotchiness; she felt better even if he never noticed she'd done it.

She smiled as she brushed her hair. The sun, the fresh country air, would do her good.

When she returned to the kitchen, she found him gathering up the larger pieces of what appeared to be a broken mug. She knew immediately which one had been shattered; the horribly garish tulip and owl print (rendered in shades of chartreuse and fuchsia) was still visible. "What happened?"

"I was washing up," he said sheepishly. "Last mug slipped out of my hand. I feel terrible."

"It's hardly antique china," she said with a chuckle. "Let me get a broom and a dustpan." She did and when she returned with it he insisted on sweeping up the mess. "You didn't really have to wash up, Mark, though I appreciate the effort." He crouched down to sweep the remnants into the dustpan, and was thankful he was sweeping up; crouching like that might have been very painful for her. "You've actually done us a huge favour," she added as he rose to his feet again. "That particular mug was a point of contention in this house."

He stared down at the shards in the dustpan. "Why? I mean, aside from the obvious fact that it's…"

"Ugly as arse?" she supplied, making him smile. "It was something that my mum had gotten years ago, God knows where, but she was always very partial to it and resisted all efforts on our part—my dad and me, that is—to get rid of it."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

She took the dustpan from him and emptied it into the dustbin. "No, don't be. You've wielded the proverbial stone and taken out both birds. My mum couldn't possibly be angry at you for accidentally breaking it—whereas if I'd done it, she'd be accusing us of a plot. And it goes without saying that you've just gotten yourself into my dad's good books, whether you meant to or not."

At this bit of a ramble, he looked first stunned, then amused, then began to laugh. "Happy to oblige, I guess," he said. "I could break the other mug too, if you like."

At this she laughed abruptly out loud. "No need. Come on, let's go outside before it gets too hot out."

As she opened the door to the back garden a cool breeze wafted into her face and lifted her hair off of her neck as if in greeting, welcoming her to the great outdoors. She sighed. Yes, some fresh air was exactly what she needed.

Her mother had, earlier that summer, bought a set of lawn chairs and a small table, and had kept them clean and tidy as if expecting company at any moment. It appeared that doing so would pay off at last. The whole setup looked out over fields tinted varying shades of green and the occasional patch of tan, situated under sturdy boughs and a canopy of gently susurrating leaves; beyond that, pure blue skies with the occasional fluffy white cloud.

Sheer heaven.

The chairs were cushioned and quite comfortable, and she sat and rested against the back, letting out a long sigh. She felt the breeze teasing her hair, cool but not chilly. She briefly closed her eyes and relished in the serenity of her surroundings.

"It's lovely out here," Mark said. "Very peaceful."

"Mm-hmm," she said.

For all of her self-justification in asking him to stay—wanting someone with whom to chat—she found that she could think of nothing she wanted to say. It was surprisingly comforting just to sit there in companionable silence.

"Perhaps I can bring out something to drink for you?"

She smiled, looking to him. "I think my mum keeps a pitcher of iced tea chilled… but you don't have to go to the trouble just for me."

"No trouble. Iced tea sounds delicious."

"Holler if you can't find the glasses. Or if you think you might break a glass."

He chuckled, then went inside.

She leaned back and gazed up into the tree boughs; the shifting shadows played along her face. _What if?_ she thought. _What if things had been very different on New Year's Day?_ She had been so foolish to rush to judgment based on a tacky jumper and a grumpy insult. She'd put up her walls, had so been determined to hate him… and yes, the insult had stung very much, but if she'd just given him a chance to approach her and explain, she would have been completely sympathetic. Daniel would never have gotten the chance to lie to her about Mark—or she would have been armed with the truth, at least. Perhaps she never would have been tempted to run off—

"Here you are—oh, sorry."

It was Mark, back with a tall glass of iced tea for each of them, and he set her glass within reach on the table.

"Sorry? What for?"

"You were looking very lost in deep thought," he said.

"I was, but it's all right," she said, picking up the glass and taking a sip. "May I ask you a question?"

"You just did," he said. Her expression must have been sombre, because he said, "Sorry. Of course you may."

"This is going to sound really indelicate, maybe premature, and possibly inappropriate," she began, "but since you've gone through it… I was wondering what goes into getting a divorce."

At this he began to sputter and choke on his tea; he leaned forward, coughing.

"Oh, God, are you all right?"

Mark nodded, taking great pains to recover his breath. "Just… wrong pipe," he said wheezily. He cleared his throat then met her gaze. "Divorce?"

"I have to face the fact that it it's a possibility," she said. "I mean, this is a _major_ difference of opinion, Mark. It's well beyond 'does the loo roll flip over or under' territory." She felt her eyes welling with unwelcome tears, and she sniffed hard. "I'm not sure this is reconcilable."

"Bridget, I—"

"Darling! We're back!"

She whipped around to see her mother standing at the back door, grinning. As usual, her mother had the worst timing possible, or depending on the point of view, best, because at her candid words Mark's expression had gone slack in that moment before he'd regained his control.

"Hi Mark!" Pam added. "Nice to see you again."

"I just brought by some biscuits for Bridget from my mother," he said.

"He was nice enough to keep me company," added Bridget.

Her mother raised a brow; Bridget knew she was going to hear all about it later.

"Actually, I should be going," Mark said.

"Stay and finish your tea," insisted Pam. "I'll just be inside." She retreated, pulling the door closed behind herself, leaving silence between Mark and Bridget for too many moments.

"I'm not going to answer your question right now," he said at last in a very quiet, kind voice. "Not because divorce is an unspeakable litany of horrors—though it surely comes close in some circumstances—but because you need more time before you give this serious consideration. You've had a massive trauma. You need to weigh all of your options."

She scowled a little. "I think I'm being fairly practical and realistic, given the circumstances."

The lines of his jaw tensed in what to her was becoming a familiar indicator of restraint; she wondered about what he was holding back. "There's the matter," he said levelly, but still warmly, "of not having actually spoken to him in person since… everything happened."

There he had a point. She looked down into her tea, studied the light playing on what was left of her ice cubes. "He does deserve that much," she said. "But it's not going to change the fact that I'd like to have children and he doesn't."

To this he did not respond. He simply picked up his tea, finished it, then set the empty glass down again, the ice rattling against the glass. "My father's expecting me," he said, rising to his feet.

Tears sprung to her eyes. "Don't be angry," she said, turning to look at him.

"I'm not," he said, stepping closer to her, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Just don't race out of anything as quickly as you raced into it."

She stared at him, stunned, and with a quiet goodbye he exited not through the house but by the garden gate. His words had quite honestly taken her aback, partly because his advice was sage… and partly because it meant he was recommending she stay and try to make things work with Daniel.

Why would someone who was (according to her mother) in love with her encourage that?

As much as she hated to admit it, however, he was right. She couldn't just throw everything away on what she thought was a fatal incompatibility. Now that the anger and hurt he had prompted had subsided somewhat, she realised more than ever that they needed to talk. She needed to be sure. And she really needed to stop putting it off.


	7. Chapter 7

**It's a Nice Day to Start Again**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 78,546  
Chapters: 11 + epilogue  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Chapter 7.

_Tues, 25 Jul_  
_(cont.)_

The phone rang at just the right moment to save Daniel Cleaver from a spread sheet hell that was making him dizzy with boredom. "Cleaver," he said after sweeping up the receiver.

"Daniel, it's me."

He sat back. "Bridge," he said, surprised. "How are you?"

"Holding up," she said. There was a little silence on the line before she spoke again. "And you?"

It was not a question he was expecting after she'd basically told him she didn't want to see him for the foreseeable future. "I'm fine. Busy." He paused, trying to determine the direction in which this conversation might be headed. "My mother sends her best wishes."

"Oh, that's lovely of her."

"And still feeling terrible about what happened," he ventured.

"I know you do, Daniel," she said; her tone was far gentler than it had been the previous day. "It's one thing to realise you aren't cut out to be a father—though for what it's worth, I think you'd've been a good one. It's another thing to actively wish harm…" She stopped, her voice cracking with a sob. "Sorry. I mean I know you wouldn't."

His heart ached for her. "I would have stood by you," he said; he hoped she believed him.

She went silent again for many moments. "Are you free to come to my parents'?" she asked. "I have a feeling the talk we need to have next is one we ought to have face to face."

He glanced to the clock in the corner of his computer screen. Barely one in the afternoon. "I can leave within half an hour. If you're really ready to see me."

"Yeah," she said. "I think it's best settled sooner rather than later. Do you remember how to get here?"

"It's in my sat-nav," Daniel said. "I'll see you in a couple of hours."

"Okay," he said. "I'll see you soon."

"Bye."

"Bye," he said. "I love you."

He thought for a second that she had disconnected before she'd heard him, but she replied in a tremulous voice, "I love you, too."

He disconnected, then immediately rang up Perpetua's desk to explain the situation. He did not have any appointments for the afternoon, so well within the half-hour he'd quoted he was out of the office and on the road, stopping briefly for a cup of strong coffee.

She must have been watching for his approach, because as he came up the walk she met him at the door. She had obviously taken the time to make herself up, but it could not disguise the fact that she looked completely fatigued and utterly wrecked. He could only think of the stark contrast between her now and her on their wedding day, so excited and bubbly. She managed a wan smile. "Hi," she said.

"Bridge," he said. He wanted to hug her, but didn't want to make any missteps… then he thought, _Sod it_, and held out his arms to enfold her. To his great relief, she accepted the embrace. He heard her start to cry, felt her shake with restrained sobs. His own eyes watered with tears as he stroked her hair.

"There, there," he said softly.

"We should go," she began, then pulled back, wiping under her eyes, "in the back garden. We can sit there and talk with some privacy."

"Your parents…?"

"They're home. They said you can stay for supper if you like."

"Your father doesn't want to run me through with a sword?" he joked.

She laughed a little at that. "I think he might have at first, but… he knows you didn't cause this, or want it."

He glanced down. "Thanks. I was such a selfish arse not to take your calls, and to hang up on Darcy—I mean, I didn't know it was him at the time, but you know… I didn't want to talk to you in my drunken state, and I never thought it was anything so serious as being in hospital. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"I know you are," she said. "And I understand now why you did it."

He was taken aback. He'd been so convinced she had hated him after everything, and he felt ashamed that he'd ever thought that way. More than that, he felt awkward; he had no idea what else to say. This was not a common state for him.

"Shall we go sit down?"

She led him through the low gate and to the back of the house, where a lovely little area with a table and chairs awaited. There was one half-empty glass of what looked like tea on the table; another one that was full, dripping with condensation, clearly untouched; also there was her mobile, a box of tissues (also half empty) and an assortment of magazines he recognised had come in the post late last week. She had clearly spent some time at this table today.

"I brought out a tea for you before," she explained, regarding the full glass. "I think it's still cold."

"I'm sure it's fine. Thanks." He reached for it, took a long sip; it was refreshing after the drive. When he set it down he saw he'd taken half of it in.

"So," she said.

"The elephant in the room," he said.

"Yeah," she said sombrely. "So you don't think you ever want to have children." It was more a statement than a query, probably because she already knew the answer.

He shook his head. "I don't think I do, Bridge. My intentions would be good, but I…" He trailed off. It was so difficult to verbalise the guttural terror at the thought he could ever do to a child of his what his father had done to him. "Despite my mum being a great mum… there's always that fear that her positive contributions could never outweigh his negative ones in my psyche." He turned his gaze to her; she was scratching idly at her cuticle in a nervous way. "You do understand it's nothing to do with you." She nodded slowly. "I mean… all teasing aside about your leaving babies in shops, if ever there was a woman I'd want to share my DNA with, it would be you."

She smiled a little; he was grateful that at least she wasn't crying anymore. "I understand," she said quietly, then met his gaze. "I can't make you change your mind, but… you know I do."

Want children. Yes, he knew. One thought popped absurdly yet appropriately into his head, an apparent cliché at which he had always scoffed and never given much credence. In this case, in a moment of clarity, he understood it perfectly to his very soul.

_If you love somebody, set them free._

"It's something we should have talked about from the beginning," he said. "I know that now."

She nodded again, sniffing, wiping tears from her face with a fresh tissue. "Foolishly I assumed you felt the way I did."

"Foolishly I assumed the protection we were using would work," he said wryly. He felt suddenly serious, and reached to take her hand. "I'll always care about you, Bridge, always love you in my way, but I can't keep you in a marriage that you can never be happy in."

She sputtered a little laugh. "I was just going to say the same thing."

He felt hugely relieved, and patted the back of the hand he held. "Okay," he said as he sighed. "Okay." He looked at her again. "I can make this as painless as possible. I can start getting things in motion while you're here with your mum and dad."

"Sure," she said. She seemed to be considering something, then shook her head as if to shake it away.

She looked despondent; he suddenly felt the need to make her smile. "To be honest, I never thought I'd get married at all, so even this was an accomplishment in and of itself," he said.

She smiled a little. "Not quite three months," she murmured, squeezing his hand, then letting it go. "I feel oddly better for having sorted this. No offence."

"None taken," he said. "I do too. Feel especially better in that I'm free to make that doctor's appointment now."

"I hope we can still be friends," she said, sniffing. "At least friendly."

"I expect an invitation to your next wedding," he said. She chuckled a little at this.

He picked up his tea for another sip. "I don't think I'll stay," he said.

"Daniel, don't be silly," she said. "You drove all this way…"

"It'd be the most awkward supper ever," he said. "'Mr Jones, Mrs Jones, your daughter and I have decided to split. Mind passing the peas?'"

"Let's tell them together, then you can decide."

They sat out together, her hand on his, until they'd both finished their tea. He rose and gathered the glasses, and saw she was having a little trouble getting up. "Need a hand?"

She shook her head. "I'm fine, just a bit sore, though better than I was."

"I'm glad it's better, anyway."

Once in the house they spoke directly to her parents who were both in the kitchen (preparing food, with the added benefit of a view of the back garden), and broke the news to them.

"Oh, no," Pam Jones said. "Surely not."

"You only just got married," said her father Colin. "Had the reception."

"I know," said Bridget.

"I'm sorry, and I can help with that," said Daniel. "We jumped into things a little too quickly, I think, before really talking things over regarding the future. We may have some irreconcilable differences when it comes to being husband and wife, but it doesn't mean we don't still care about each other."

Colin pursed his lips. "Apparently not enough to work it out."

"Dad," said Bridget. "Please."

"This is terribly upsetting," said Pam.

"I'm sorry, Mum, I really am," Bridget said, "but there's nothing to be done about it. I want a baby some day, he doesn't, and he doesn't want to deprive me of that."

"And she doesn't want to push me into it."

At this her parents said nothing; their expressions spoke of their shock.

Daniel turned to Bridget. "I should probably be leaving."

She nodded. Her parents did not insist he stay, but her mother did give him a little hug on the way out; her father, a handshake.

As he made his way back to where his car was parked in the drive, another vehicle pulled up, a silver sedan. Its driver emerged.

"Cleaver!"

It was Mark Darcy, and he looked angry.

…

Mark had made up his mind. He needed to distance himself from this little bubble of a world here in Grafton Underwood, one in which his friendship with Bridget had grown very quickly in a very short period of time in part due to a shared tragic experience. He needed to give her time to recover without his constant presence, potentially influencing her behaviour or decisions.

To be perfectly frank, it had been her query about divorce that had rattled him a little. It underscored to him that everything was moving much too fast and he felt his influence was a contributing factor, if not the cause. So he'd decided to return to her house before dinner to drop off the videotape as he'd promised, then return to London; he would explain he had to go back to town, and refuse to stay for supper if he were asked.

He knew he could have just gone back to London, but there was the promised video; perhaps more importantly, he'd also seen how hurt she'd looked at his reaction and quick departure. He wanted to see her once more to reassure her. He couldn't bear to think of adding to her distress.

It perplexed him, therefore, to see another vehicle in the Jones' drive when he rolled up in his own. Mark then saw the last person he expected to see strolling away from the house and down the long drive. His temper flared. Daniel had apparently come all this away against her express wishes. He emerged from his own car and shouted his name.

For his part, he looked equally surprised to see Mark. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same," Mark said tersely, "since I distinctly remember her saying she didn't want to see you just yet."

"Cool your jets, Darcy," Daniel said. "My wife called me and asked me to come. Said she wanted to talk." He lifted his chin. "We have. Quite cathartic."

Mark knew Daniel was trying to provoke him to ask about their discussion. He decided not to take the bait, and he firmed his jaw.

"Careful," Daniel said. "You could grind your teeth down to nubs if you keep that up. Not good for you. Certainly would not help your overall presentation in court."

"Cleaver," he said in an impatient tone. "If you don't mind, step aside. I have something to deliver here."

"You're a tough nut to crack, aren't you?" Daniel said. "Okay, fine. Because of all you did for Bridget, and since she's likely to tell you anyway, we've decided the best thing, moving forward, is to part ways. We are at an impasse called 'theoretical future children.' There's no way around it."

Mark did not quite know what to say, so he offered a simple, "I'm sorry." It seemed feeble at best, though, even to his own ears.

"I'm sure you'll cry yourself to sleep over it," Daniel said.

"I'm sorry," he repeated with a bit more fire in his voice, "that you ever decided to propose in the first place."

"_That's_ more like it," he said. "Well, now we're even, or we will be. Each with an ex-wife."

If not for his desire to not upset Bridget, Mark might have been tempted to knock Daniel to the ground for being an arse. "I can see you're distraught over this," Mark said instead.

Daniel's features went hard. "Don't think for a moment I'm not, Darcy," he hissed.

"Why should I think you are?" Mark shot back. "It sounds like you had someone to turn to already when you told me to fuck off."

He furrowed his brows. "You mean at the bar? That girl answered my phone, for fuck's sake. I didn't sleep with her."

"And suddenly I can trust your word," Mark said.

"Trust it or don't, it's the truth," he said. "I still love Bridge and have never cheated on her. Letting her go… I have no choice. She'd never be happy without the children she wants. I couldn't do that to her."

More than anything else Daniel had said, this statement, and the honesty with which he'd delivered it, caused Mark to feel anything close to respect for Daniel for the first time in a long time. "That was noble of you," he said. "And I'm not being facetious."

Daniel made a dismissive sound, but Mark could tell the comment had hit the target he'd intended. As usual, he tried deflecting it with humour. "I suppose that should mean a lot from you, Fitzwilliam," he said. "Well. It's a long drive back to London, and I've got paperwork to start working on. Don't suppose you know anyone willing to take it on? Don't suppose _you_ would?"

"Not really my field," Mark responded. "I don't think even _your_ marriage would qualify as a human rights violation."

At this Daniel laughed aloud. "I always suspected your sense of humour hadn't completely withered and died. Cheers." With that Daniel went to his car; Mark turned his attention back to the house.

He rapped upon the door; her father answered. From the look of surprise on his face, Mark figured he was expecting Daniel had returned. "Hello, Mark," he said. "Please come in, have something to drink."

"Don't think I can stay," he said. "I just wanted to bring this by." He held up the videotape. "Evidence of paddling pool romping."

"Oh, that'll cheer her greatly," he said. "She's upstairs with her mother." In a quieter, more confidential voice, he said, "She and Daniel… they're going to split. She's understandably upset."

Mark thought of what Daniel had said. "Does she not want to?"

"Oh, I think she knows it's what she needs to do," Colin said. "But she feels a bit of a failure, especially since she still loves him. It hasn't even been three months, as she's been reminding us every other minute." Colin further lowered his voice. "Stay and have something to drink. Stay for dinner. I think she could use a friend right now."

Despite his earlier vow to himself, how could he refuse? "All right. I'll stay."

"Terrific. Some wine?"

"Actually," he said, "if you've got some single malt…"

Colin chuckled. "Something a bit stronger. I understand. Bit of ice?"

"That sounds perfect."

"Sit down; I'll have it right over."

As Colin went to pour the scotch, Mark stepped out of his shoes, set the videotape down on top of the telly, then had a seat on the sofa. He noticed that the bowl of mixed nuts still sat on the table. He chuckled, then reached for an almond and a cashew.

"Here you are." A tumbler of scotch entered the periphery of his vision, on offer by Colin Jones.

"Thank you, sir."

He sat with his own tumbler on the chair that seemed to be more or less his perch. He lifted the tumbler. "Cheers," he said, then took a sip.

Mark smiled. "Cheers." He then sipped his own. It wasn't bad as brands go—certainly he'd had worse—and it would serve the purpose.

"I thought I heard your voice."

He turned and saw Bridget entering the room, walking slowly as if she were hurting again. She'd clearly been crying, but she also seemed pleased to see him. "Hello," he said.

"Is that scotch?" she said almost disapprovingly.

"Yes," Mark replied.

"Can I get you one, darling?" asked her father.

"Ugh, no," she said, taking a seat on the sofa next to Mark. "I never could understand how anyone could enjoy something that tastes like rocket fuel."

Mark chuckled.

"If you're offering, though, I'll take some wine."

"Certainly," Colin said, then went out of the room.

"I'm surprised to see you," she said, turning to Mark. "I thought you were coming after dinner."

"Slight change of plans," he said. "I have to head back to London, so I was just dropping the tape off." He pointed towards the telly. "Your father convinced me to stay for something to eat before heading out."

"Oh," she said, her voice hinting towards her disappointment.

"I saw Daniel on my way in," Mark said. "I'm sorry. I know this is not the ending you wanted."

She nodded slightly. "I didn't want an ending at all, but I realised it was inevitable," she said, a tremble to her words. "And it's best not to let it drag on and on. Still… it's a disappointment. We hadn't even made it to three months."

"I understand," said Mark with a smile.

"I mean, that's pathetic. Sad, really."

"No, Bridget. Two _weeks_ is pathetic and sad."

She blinked in confusion. "I don't follow."

"You at least outlasted my marriage," he said.

Her eyes widened as the penny dropped. "_No_."

He nodded. "Yes."

This bit of information had its intended effect, and she smiled, then began to chuckle. "Oh, I'm sorry to laugh, Mark, but…"

"No, it's all right. I can find the humour in it now. Two weeks is laughable. I should have known better."

Her father returned to her with a glass of white. "Thanks, Dad." She sipped. "Mm. This helps more than any meds could."

Pam's voice echoed through the lower floor. "Come on. Supper's ready."

Pam had prepared a cold pasta salad; he hadn't realised quite how hungry he was until he had managed to clear his plate in record time. Pam insisted on seconds. "Save room for dessert, though," she said. "Raspberry sorbet."

They moved to the sitting room with their bowls of sorbet. Colin put the videotape in and switched on the telly. Mark sat on one side of the sofa. He expected Bridget would take the other side. He did not expect that she would take the middle to allow room for her mum.

The screen came to life with static, then Pam Jones—"Oh my!" she gasped; "I look so young!"—standing beside Mark's own mother as they waved to the camera. The camera swung around to reveal the cameraman was Malcolm Darcy. He waved and smiled then trained the lens on his wife and her friend.

On-screen Pam started to point and was saying something, but there was no sound.

"Oh," said Pam. "I was telling him to film the children. You were all being very sweet. And of course…"

There she was, Bridget, a tiny blonde child with a broad, devilish grin and dressed in a sweet pink dress. She stopped while running in circles to mug for the camera before running off again. Mark could not contain the smile that spread across his face.

"Seems like yesterday you were a terror running 'round," said Pam. "And there _you_ are, Mark, being all serious."

There he was indeed: dress shirt, trousers, and bow tie, looking positively geriatric at the tender age of eight.

"It was my birthday," Mark said defensively in response to no one.

They chuckled. "That explains the tie," said Bridget. "You were really a wild child, Mark."

Mark had only ever seen the first few minutes, so most of it would be a surprise to him, too, and before long they were into unfamiliar territory. There was more footage of children romping around; Mark had no recollection of who most of them even were, or from where he knew them. That pink streak ended up in most of the shots, though, eating chocolate cake by the handful, taking tentative glugs from a wine bottle, shoving candy cigarettes in her mouth.

"Some things don't change there, do they?" Bridget said with a hearty laugh. "Oh, God. I just hit Mark on the head with a tennis racket!"

"Tapped, not hit," Mark said. "No lasting damage."

"Well, we can never be totally sure, can we?" joked Bridget.

They were all laughing now. "Shouldn't have been reading at your own party, Mark!" said Pam.

"There's a lot of me on here," said Bridget.

"I think you stole the show," said Colin. "The rest of those kids seem like they're on sedatives in comparison."

"Colin!" said Pam, though she was chuckling. Mark could not help thinking that even today most women seemed so compared to Bridget, and he smiled.

Then came the moment where she tore off her little pink dress and jumped straight into the paddling pool. This sent her mother and father into gales of laughter. "Oh God," said Bridget, covering her face in her embarrassment, but clearly amused. Mark noticed that his younger self was adjusting his tie and, if his eyes did not deceive him, smirking a little; she certainly was adorable, spirited, and a lot more fun than any of the kids there; his younger self clearly recognised that. Her spark only endeared her to him… then, and now.

Evidently he'd persisted in reading at the party, because there he was again with the book… and then—

Young Bridget placed a kiss on the back of his neck.

"Oh my!" said Pam with a giggle. "How sweet!"

He had not remembered this, not at all, and involuntarily he felt his skin flush with embarrassment.

"Wasn't I a little flirt?" said Bridget in a strange, stilted manner; he glanced to her and saw that she, too, was blushing.

"And look at you, trying to get her to behave, taking her hand," said Pam. "Looks to me that a fast friendship was born that day—it's really too bad we didn't move here a year or so sooner!"

To Mark's great relief, the party footage ended and the screen filled with visual snow. "Oh, wasn't that nice. Thank you, Mark, for bringing this by. What a treat."

"I'm going to have it digitised," he said, still feeling his mortification completely and utterly. "I'll make sure you get a copy." He ate the last spoonful of his dessert, then got to his feet, ejecting the tape from the player. "I must go. Mr Jones, Mrs Jones, thank you again. Please, don't get up. I'll show myself out."

"Leaving so soon?"

"He's returning to London," said Bridget.

He turned his gaze to where she sat on the sofa. He wanted to help her to her feet and give her a warm, reassuring hug in parting, but instead he offered only a smile. "I'm glad you're improving so quickly," he said. "Take care of yourself."

She nodded. "Thanks for coming by."

He turned then went out through the front door, not releasing the breath he was holding until he was halfway to his vehicle. He looked up into the twilight, saw the stars emerging as the clear day became a clear night. He knew he must stand by his resolve to give her time to think and sort things out, but he was really going to miss having her company tonight. The drive and the distance were going to seem that much more interminable.

…

"That was a bit odd."

For once, Bridget agreed with her mother.

"He left so quickly," Pam continued. "And wasn't going to stay at all. I mean, what could be so urgent tonight?"

"Don't know, Mum," she said. "Maybe something came up on a case."

In her heart, though, she knew it wasn't actually to do with work at all. Even if he'd finished his work with his father, why was he so eager to be back in London that night?

She could only think it had something to do with her. Mark had cautioned her not to be hasty in speaking with Daniel and settling on divorce, yet she had not only called Daniel up to see her, but they'd already decided on their future. Divorce was in motion.

She'd mucked it up again. Blown her friendship with him, probably lost his respect too. If her mother had been right about him being in love with her, he likely wasn't anymore. "I'm tired," said Bridget. "I'm going to go upstairs."

In the dark, silent solitude of her room, she allowed her tears to come.

_Weds, 26 Jul_

Morning light brought the hope and relief that it usually does. As she turned over and caught a glimpse of the bright blue summer sky through the window, she felt a bit sheepish for the way she had allowed her morose, hormone-fuelled feelings to compound upon themselves. The pain in her stomach was much lessened, which was a relief. Maybe she would start to feel more like herself; maybe her emotions would level out again.

After brushing through her hair and scrubbing her face and teeth, she made her way downstairs. Her mother greeted her with a bright smile, offered to make her breakfast as she poured a cup of coffee for her daughter. "Even if it is nearing lunch," teased Pam.

"I'm not that hungry," she said, sitting at the table, idly looking over the paper. "Maybe a little yoghurt."

"I don't know if we have any," said Pam. "Maybe a little—"

She was interrupted by the front door's bell going off. "Goodness, did your father lock himself out again?" her mother asked herself. "Be right back, darling." In a few moments time, Bridget heard her mother's expression of surprise; she returned presently with Elaine Darcy.

"Hello, Bridget dear," said Elaine. "I heard you liked these, so I baked you some more."

Bridget smiled as Elaine set down the plate of fresh baked biscuits and pulled back the cling film. "Thank you," she said, taking one from the plate. "I guess this solves my 'what to eat' dilemma."

"Coffee, Elaine? Tea?"

"Coffee if you don't mind, thanks," Elaine said, then took a seat at the table near Bridget. "I wanted to see how you are, too. I should have phoned first; I see that now."

She chuckled. "Please don't worry about that," she said. "I'm doing…" Damn her hormones; she began tearing up again. "…doing better. Feeling better."

"Still a bit… weepy," Elaine said. She patted Bridget's hand. "That's understandable."

"Here you are." It was Pam with Elaine's coffee.

"Thank you, Pam." She took it then took a sip. "You know, I expected to find Mark here."

Bridget blinked. Had he really returned to London without informing his parents? Did she think he stayed the night at her parents'? "What?"

"'Pardon', Bridget," reminded Pam.

"I mean, why would he be here?" asked Bridget.

"He had supper here, but he went back to London last night," Pam supplied.

Elaine looked truly surprised. "That's not like him at all," she said. "I mean, we don't make him check in and out, but… he's always so courteous, letting us know when he's coming or going…. Was everything all right?"

"Oh, yes," said Pam, though Bridget was not so sure. "We watched your videotape of the, you know, Mark's eighth birthday. Maybe it was related to work."

"I'm sure that's it," said Elaine, though she still looked dubious. She shook it off, though, and went on, "He keeps promising me he's going to get them converted onto disc."

"He mentioned that," said Bridget, then furrowed her brow. "'Them'?"

"Oh, yes, there are other reels that we had put on videotape years ago," Elaine said. "I'm not even sure he's seen them all. You're in a few others."

"I am?" Bridget asked.

"Oh, I'd forgotten all about that," said Pam.

"The one of Mark at your christening, Bridget, is pure sweetness," said Elaine. "Peeking with curiosity into your bassinet, wondering why your eyes were blue. We'll definitely get you copies, Pam."

"I'd love that," Pam cooed.

Bridget took another biscuit and took a nibble, suddenly lost in thought. They had a whole shared history of which she'd had no idea, aside from the paddling pool. She found it quite endearing.

"Well, thank you for the coffee, Pam," said Elaine.

"Thank _you_ for the biscuits," said Bridget, getting to her feet.

"I'll get the plate back to you later," said Pam.

"How much longer will you be here with your parents, dear?" Elaine asked of her.

"Um, probably through Sunday," said Bridget. "I'll need to check the train schedule."

"Well, I'm sure we can find someone to drive you back if you can't bear the thought of the train," said Elaine, then held out her arms to give Bridget a hug. "Take care of yourself."

Elaine's words echoed her son's, and it brought unexpected tears to Bridget's eyes. "I will. Thanks."

_Thurs, 27 Jul_

Mark had busied himself with work from the previous two workdays that he'd missed being in Grafton Underwood. It had served to distract him very well, though in an effort to do that, he had foolishly accepted Natasha's casual dinner invitation the previous night. He'd made it clear it was just as colleagues, though was afraid in the light of a new day that even that wouldn't serve to adequately set her straight.

He was in the middle of writing a long, complex sentence when his desk phone rang. Annoyed that his train of thought had been disrupted, he whisked the handset up and barked, "Darcy speaking."

"Just what I needed. A friendly voice in my hour of need."

It was, much to his surprise, Daniel Cleaver. He decided to remain civil, for Bridget's sake. "I apologise," said Mark, setting down his pen. "What is it you need?"

"A referral. I've been going mad—spent all day yesterday trying to find someone to begin the paperwork but I have had no luck at all. So I thought I'd cut to the chase and ask you if you could point me in the right direction. I mean… you must know at least one divorce attorney."

Mark exhaled loudly.

"Sorry, sorry," said Daniel. "Can you help, Darce? I'm getting desperate. I want something lined up for when Bridge returns. I don't want this to be any trouble at all for her."

Mark ran his hand over his forehead. "Well, first of all, you can't get divorced."

There was a long silence. "Darcy? I don't follow."

"Not technically. There is a requirement in the UK, Cleaver, that one can only apply for a divorce after a minimum of twelve months of marriage. No exceptions."

"What?" Daniel exclaimed. "How did _you_ get a divorce so fast?"

"I was married in America, as you recall," said Mark, "and had a pretty clear cut case of adultery."

Daniel went silent again. "Right," he said; he had the good grace to sound contrite.

"So I would investigate the possibility of either a legal separation until such time that divorce proceedings can begin, or an annulment," Mark carried on. "I'm not sure of all of the possible reasons for being granted an annulment, so you'll want to consult with a solicitor."

"So that brings me back to whether or not you know any."

"I do. Jason McCarthy. Let me get you his number, and let him know I sent you along."

"Thank you," Daniel said.

"And if you don't mind," Mark said, "behave. No off-colour remarks, no sexual innuendos; just stick to the facts and bring your marriage paperwork to the appointment."

"Scout's honour," said Daniel. "I really owe you for this."

Mark could think of worse things than having Daniel Cleaver indebted to him.

_Fri, 28 Jul_

"Mr Cleaver. Please, follow me."

Daniel knew that Bridget was likely to return to London and to work that following Monday, and he was pleased and relieved to at least have a preliminary appointment so quickly. It seemed that Mark Darcy's name did in fact open doors in legal circles, which was why he was now being led back to Jason McCarthy's inner sanctum by Jason's personal assistant, Sarah, a serious-looking woman whom Daniel guessed to be his mum's age.

"Mr Cleaver," said the man behind the desk, rising with his hand extended to shake Daniel's. He was tall, lean and hazel-eyed with immaculately trimmed hair and goatee, and dressed in a very well-cut and expensive suit; it did not at all surprise him that he and Mark associated with one another. "Any friend of Mark's is a friend of mine. Please, have a seat and let's discuss your needs."

Daniel decided not to correct the misapprehension regarding his friendship status with Mark. He took the proffered seat. "Please, call me Daniel," he said, then held the folder he had brought with him out for the solicitor. "To cut a long story short, I need the quickest possible divorce, separation, whatever."

"And feel free to call me Jason," he said, taking the folder and thumbing through the paperwork. "Wow. It's been a while since I've seen this form." He looked up. "You don't do anything by halves, do you?" he asked with a grin.

"I do my best," said Daniel with a grin.

Jason picked up his phone and punched a button. "Sarah, if you don't mind, I need some copies made. Thanks." He hung up; a few seconds later, the personal assistant came in, took Daniel's folder, then went out again.

"So give me a little background. Why do you want to… well, I guess 'dissolve the union' would be the best way to put it."

"We had a… misunderstanding about children. This only came to light when she actually became pregnant. It made me realise I didn't want any."

"Oh, that's… _awkward_," said Jason. "So we'll need to consider support—"

"No, actually, we won't," said Daniel.

Jason drew his brows together and said hastily, "You've got legal obligations—"

What kind of heartless-bastard image did he project? Daniel interrupted, "I mean she miscarried."

"Oh," said Jason again, drawing out the syllable. "I'm sorry."

"I am too, for her sake," said Daniel. "But it threw our different perspectives on the whole child thing into sharp relief. Hence 'dissolving the union'. Best not to prolong things."

"You're probably right." A crisp knock; Sarah entered, handed Daniel his folder, then handed Jason the copies in another folder. "I'll review these in depth later but at first glance they seem to be in order. Let's discuss strategy further. I don't mean to be indelicate, but did she cheat on you?" asked Jason. "Was the child's paternity in question?"

"No, no, absolutely not."

"Is she, I don't know, blind drunk all the time?"

"No," said Daniel. "I mean, sure, she enjoys her wine… who doesn't? And she always looks especially sexy whilst a bit squiffy." Jason quirked a brow. "But that's neither here nor there. Totally normal," continued Daniel.

"Okay," Jason said. "Do you have anything else?"

"Anything else… in what sense?"

"Well, in defence of protecting what's yours," he said. "You were only married for a few months. She could try to go after a lot more than to which she's really entitled given the length of the marriage." Jason leaned forward. "Is there anything she can bring out against you? Verbal abuse—"

"No," he interrupted sharply. "I just want this whole thing wrapped up with as little fuss and drama as possible."

"Well, Mr—that is, _Daniel_." Jason smiled a little sheepishly for the slip. "I'll have a thorough look through legal code and precedent and see if there's a basis for annulment—though frankly I doubt that will be an option. I strongly suspect you'll need to go the legal separation route, and divorce in May of next year. I know that's not very speedy but…"

"Yes, I know. No exceptions."

Jason grinned. "You've been talking to Mark. Oh, if you don't mind leaving Mrs Cleaver's information, I'd like to speak with her… oh, unless she's hired her own solicitor, or plans to. I can speak to her and see if we can reach an accord outside of court."

"She's in the country recuperating from the miscarriage," Daniel said, "and otherwise I'd prefer to involve her as little as possible unless or until it's absolutely necessary."

"I understand," Jason said. "I do need to verify fairly early on, though, to exactly what she agrees."

"I can leave it with Sarah," said Daniel, "but give her a week more."

"Agreed." Jason rose, signalling the end of the consultation. "I'll be in touch."

As Daniel departed, he could not help but hope that this would make Bridget happy. He was afraid that the one year requirement for an actual divorce would upset her, but there was nothing he could do about that.

No one could say he hadn't tried his very hardest.

…

"No, really, I'm much better. I'm hardly crying anymore."

Bridget cradled the mobile in her hand as she leaned back in the lounge chair. She hadn't spent so much time outdoors since she was a child and she thought it was helping her recovery immensely. She closed her eyes as the breeze kicked up and tousled her hair about.

"It must have been _awful_." Tom's overly dramatic way with things, strangely enough, made her feel better.

"I felt like I was tripping on acid or something," she said. "Before I passed out, I mean. I don't know what was going on. Then I woke up… in hospital. It had already happened."

"Poor darling," Tom cooed. "I really am sorry. I was so looking forward to being an uncle at long last. Oh, sorry."

"It's okay," she said. "Beside, you'll still get a chance someday. It's not going to be with Daniel, but I have a very good feeling it'll happen someday."

_Dammit_, she thought as tears blurred her eyes.

"What about me?" chirped Tom. This made her laugh. "Oh come on. You could trust me not to go 'round getting other women sprogged up. I wouldn't even touch you! Miracle of modern science!"

She had to admit the idea had its appeal, but she wanted the warm, nest-like feel of more than just a baby, but a family. "I do appreciate the offer," she said. "Truly."

"As long as you know I am happy to be your back-up plan," he said, "then my work is done here." He was silent a moment. "When are you coming back?"

"Probably Sunday," she said. "I'm not sure when exactly. I haven't checked the trains but it's probably not 'til the afternoon. I don't want to bother anyone, and my ride up has gone home."

"Who was that?"

"Mark Darcy," she said. "Remember me mentioning him?"

"Of course. Your saviour," said Tom. "Former wearer of hideous holiday jumper."

She laughed. "Yes, him."

"It's nice to know he's got redeeming qualities," said Tom. "Is he cute?"

"Why are you asking? He was at the reception."

"We were never introduced, if he was. Terrible faux pas of yours." He inhaled; likely smoking. "And if he slipped under _my_ radar… anyway, you haven't answered the question."

Bridget chuckled. "Don't you start, too," she said.

"'Too'?" asked Tom. "Oh! Do tell!"

"It's nothing," Bridget said. "My mother was under the mad delusion that he was in love with me."

He pressed on: "'Was'? What do you mean by 'was'?"

"Was, is, I don't know. Anyway, it hardly matters," she said. "I'm still married."

"Only technically," said Tom. "Besides, I was asking for me."

This made her laugh again. "I suppose he is, but I don't think he's on your team, _darling_," she said, then sighed; she had not quite realised how little she had been with her friends, comparatively speaking, since getting married. "Oh, I can't _wait_ to see you all again."

"Very soon, Bridgeline," he said. "Very soon."


	8. Chapter 8

**It's a Nice Day to Start Again**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 78,546  
Chapters: 11 + epilogue  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Chapter 8.

_Sun, 30 Jul_

Bridget figured if she didn't look up the train timetable, maybe she might not have to leave. This she thought as she sat with morning coffee on what was ostensibly her last day of recuperation prior to returning to London. It was a bit worrying that staying with her mum hadn't sent her 'round the bend, but given that most of her time had been spent staying outdoors and that her mum and dad had been giving her the space she needed, she didn't feel overly suffocated or annoyed.

With the breeze rustling through the leaves she did not hear the approach of footsteps until someone was close enough to touch her shoulder.

"Oh, crikey, you scared—"

She was expecting her mother or her father. She stopped short when she saw who it actually was.

"Hello, darling," drawled Tom from between a beaming Sharon and Jude.

She was on her feet before she could consciously think to stand, throwing her arms wide in time to catch an embrace from all three seemingly at once. Tears flowed from her eyes, but for the first time in a while they were tears of joy.

"I am so glad to see you," she sobbed.

Jude muttered something close to her ear that sounded like an agreement. Sharon was strangely silent. Tom said with a smile in his voice, "Bridge, you look so thin."

She laughed; it was his habit to comment, whilst speaking to her on the telephone, how thin she looked. She drew back, looking from one friendly face to the next. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Durr," said Sharon, smiling at last. "Here for you, aren't we?"

"But it's early," she said.

"It's eleven in the morning, Bridge," said Jude.

"Oh."

"We're here to take you to the pub for lunch, then to drive you back to London," said Tom. "Your coming back to town deserves more style and panache than the train."

Jude said, "So instead it will be in my Mini."

This made her smile. "But it will be with you three, so: to hell with leg room!"

Bridget gathered up the book she had been reading—it was always lovely to revisit the classics, especially when said classic evoked images of wet, white shirts—as well as her mobile and coffee cup, and led her friends into the house.

"Isn't this a nice surprise?" said her mother, who was smiling broadly. "Obviously, because you're beaming! So nice of you to come, Sharon, Jude… _Tom_!"

Bridget had never quite been able to understand the way her mother regarded Tom: she knew that Tom was gay, but always acted as if Tom might well be a prospective suitor for her daughter.

"Nice to see you again, Mrs Jones," said Jude.

"I'll just go get properly fixed up, pack up my stuff…"

"You look fine," said Sharon.

"_You're_ just hungry," tsked Tom teasingly. "We can eat soon enough. The pub's not going anywhere."

"Pub? Stuff and nonsense!" said Pam. "I was just going to make us a cold rice salad… I could just as easily double it."

Bridget's friends all looked to her for approval (or lack thereof). She nodded and smiled. It would give her a little more time with her mum and dad before returning. "That sounds great," she said.

"Fantastic. I'll get some tea on and get the lunch together. Go on, Bridget, and when you're done we can eat."

Bridget nodded. "Okay."

…

No one could claim Mark Darcy had no sense of spontaneity whatsoever. It was over coffee that morning, as he read the newspaper, that he was overcome with the notion that he should return to Grafton Underwood in order to bring Bridget home. After eating, grooming and dressing, he set out late in the morning. He knew from his mother that she was insisting to her parents (and even to Malcolm!) that she take 'the last train' back on her own, reminding them that she wasn't in fact completely incapacitated.

Even as he drove he debated the wisdom of his actions. He should by all rights be giving her a wide berth, because making her aware of his feelings when everything was so incredibly complicated would make a difficult situation even harder. He knew she was going to need emotional space to heal from the upheaval in her life: a failed pregnancy, a failed marriage. Moving back into—well, did she even have a place into which she could move? Finding a place would be very stressful.

On the other hand, his reasons for doing what he was doing were not selfish ones, or at least not _purely_ selfish ones. The thought of her all alone on the train as it rode along those sometimes jarring rails, feeling uncomfortable, possibly in pain… if she were to fall ill again… he could not bear it. It seemed right and proper to ferry her back to town in a greater level of comfort and attention than a train could provide.

He decided to go directly to the Jones' abode, and when he arrived there he was met by a perplexing sight: there in the drive was a car with which he was totally unfamiliar, a little Mini Cooper that looked like it needed a wash. He furrowed his brow and wondered who was visiting, wondered whether he would be interrupting.

He turned off the engine and rose, deciding to risk such an interruption after having driven all that way. Halfway to the front door he hear the distinct sound of raucous laughter emanating from the back garden. More specifically: Bridget's laughter.

Instead of going to the front door he diverted and went around to the garden gate. Before passing through he was able to see directly why she'd howled with laughter; there at the table, beside Bridget and her parents, were three of Bridget's friends whom Mark recalled seeing at the wedding reception. One of the friends was male, and he was pulling faces; the banter was still quite lively. Bridget looked as if she were back to her old self, laughing happily; she had given up the comfort of loose dresses and instead was clad in pale summer tones: a white cotton blouse, faded denim capris, and what he thought were bare feet until he realised she was wearing her clear jelly mules again. He was too far away to hear the topic of conversation, but whatever the subject was, it was causing all of them great amusement.

He should have been more pleased than he was to see her so lively and animated, but seeing her with her family and friends, people who had known her and cared for her a lot longer than he had, underscored that he did not have nearly the same relationship with her. He'd helped her when she'd needed it, and would gladly have done so again, but did she think of him as a friend, or as someone who had merely been in the right place at the right time, someone towards whom she would naturally have a sense of gratitude?

Mark was also not proud of the surge of jealousy he now felt. Granted, she had experienced a tragedy, and he hardly would have expected her to feel so jolly when last he'd seen her, but he had never been privileged enough to have such a smile bestowed upon him.

_Stupid to have come all this way_, he thought. _I don't have to keep coming to her aid. She doesn't need it._

Just then, as he was taking a step back from the gate, Bridget noticed his presence. Something about his expression caused hers to cloud over. Her mother noticed him at the same time and beckoned, "Mark! Hi! Come in."

He did as asked. "Hello," he said cordially, nodding his head at her friends. "My mother told me you might be needing a lift back to London," he said, bending the truth a little. "I see she was misinformed."

"No, no," said Pam. "This was a surprise."

"I had intended on taking the train," Bridget said.

"So you're Mark?" This from the man at the table who was not her father. "We have you to thank, I understand, for coming to Bridge's rescue."

"Come on, sit down," said Colin Jones, rising from the table to offer Mark his seat. "I'm just going to the shed," he said in a low tone with a conspiratorial wink and a mime that suggested a cigarette was in his near future. "Have you had lunch? Have some salad. Plenty left."

It appeared to be some kind of cold rice and black bean salad with what looked like tomato, red pepper, green chillies, sweetcorn and chicken. It looked pretty good, Mrs Jones' cooking had not disappointed him thus far, and he was feeling hungry, so he said, "Yes, thank you."

"I'll get you a glass," said Pam. "I've made some iced tea, which I recall you liked."

Mark offered a smile. "Thank you," he said again. He looked to Bridget's male friend, the one who had addressed him and whose name was escaping him. Suddenly it came to him; these were the friends Bridget had asked Magda to call. "It's Tom, right?" Tom nodded. "Yes, I feel very fortunate to have been there when Bridget needed help."

"I was pretty thankful you were there too," she said. "Who knows what would have become of me, my handbag…"

"Someone was looking out for you that day," said Pam as she placed the plate of salad before him, and the glass of tea next to that.

Mark merely looked down to his lunch, reached for the fork. "I just did what any decent human being would have done," he said matter-of-factly. He loaded his fork then looked up again when no one responded. Bridget did not meet his eye. If something about the comment had hurt her feelings, he couldn't for the life of him think what it could be. Perhaps she was only irritated, only found him tiresome; he had, after all, intruded on her lunch with her friends, one to which he had invited himself.

Pam then began collecting the empty plates, and at offers of assistance she insisted that everyone stay seated. "You're guests after all, durr," said Pam. "Besides, a stack of plates is no trouble."

Once her mother had gone inside, Bridget looked up at last, settling her gaze on Tom and with a reluctant smile. "So. What else did you three have planned for me today?"

"We have a surprise for you," said Tom. "Girls' night in at your place, just like the old days."

She furrowed her brow. "What? Surely not at Daniel's flat…"

"No. Shaz has taken care of everything," said Jude, whom he recalled from Brightlings. "Pizzas, wine, fighting over the best seat on your sofa…"

Some realisation dawned because Bridget grinned broadly. "Oh! You don't mean…"

"_Yes_," said Sharon, grinning. "You can go _home_ if you like."

Mark could only guess from context that they had secured a flat; rather, somehow, for whatever reason, her old flat was either still available for the taking, or had never been let go in the first place. Had it been some subconscious knowledge on her part that the union had been doomed to fail? Whatever the case, with the way that they had gone on speaking as if he had not even been there, it seemed very clear to Mark that his presence was extraneous, so he saw little point in staying. He finished up the lunch just as Pam Jones returned outdoors. "Thank you very much for lunch, but I must be off." He rose from the table.

"Already?" asked Pam.

"I'm afraid so."

"It was decent of you to come," Bridget said.

"Of course," he said. Something about her tone was off, but Mark could not quite place what it was immediately. Then he fixed on the word she'd used. _Decent_, he thought. He realised that was not accidental. Something about his earlier response had struck a nerve. "Have a safe drive back."

With that he strode towards then through the garden gate, determined to walk forward and not look back.

"Wait!"

It was Bridget's voice. He stopped only because he did not want her to run to catch up and run the risk of possibly exacerbating any lingering pain. He then turned to face her. She looked both puzzled and hurt. "Yes?" he asked.

"Are you really just going to leave like that?" she said. "I mean…"

"What?" he asked impatiently.

"To be perfectly honest, you're being a bit mean," she said, her brows knit in consternation. "I thought we were friends."

_I thought we were, too_, he thought. "I showed up unexpectedly and interrupted plans with your friends. You do not need to feel obliged to accommodate me."

She stared at him as if willing herself to understand what those words in that order meant. "I don't do anything I don't want to do," she said, tears brimming in her eyes. "If I was just some kind of charity case, you can just say so."

Charity case? "Don't be ridiculous," he said gruffly. Immediately he realised it was the wrong thing to say. Her expression changed, flashed anger.

"Fine," she said, pulling herself to her full height, or as high as she could in her jelly mules. "If you'd rather go, just go on, then." She turned as if to leave.

This was going all wrong. He wanted to stay, but he especially did not want to part on bad terms. "Wait, wait." She stopped and turned back to him. "Actually," he said, "if I'm really not intruding, I'd actually rather _not_ go."

She was regarding him with scrutiny as she walked back towards him. "Well… I suppose so. But only if you stop shouting," she said drolly.

"I'm not shouting," he said; as he did, he realised he was speaking at too high a volume. He smiled, then started to laugh. "Sorry. For everything." He paused, then added, "For being… mean."

"Forgiven," she said. "So… are we friends?" she asked tentatively.

"Yes, of course."

She smiled. "Good." Spontaneously, she reached to give him a hug, which he returned. It was all too brief a time before she was dropping back. "Come on, I'll escort you back to the table." She extended her elbow.

This made him laugh. It amazed him how much better, how much lighter he felt. "If anything I should escort you," he said. "You shouldn't be sprinting around."

"I'm fine." After a moment's thought, she said, "Actually… I'm dying for an ice cream. Are you game for a walk instead of hanging out in my parents' garden?"

The day was not as warm here as it was in London, so a walk to the heart of the small town for an ice cream cone was no great toil. In fact, it sounded positively lovely. "I am if you are," he said.

Bridget turned back to where her friends sat. "Tom! Jude! Shaz!" she called. "Ice cream!"

As she said this, Mark realised that the three of them had been looking to where he and Bridget stood. The three got to their feet and ambled on towards them.

"Mum! We're going for a walk."

"Be careful, darling," Pam called back as she gathered up the rest of the lunch remains from the table.

…

Ever popular in the summer, the ice cream shop had been there in the centre of Grafton Underwood as long as Bridget could recall, and the walk she was making now was one she had done many times; often enough, she feared, that the proprietors knew her on sight.

"I feel I'm about fifteen again," she said absently as they walked.

"Oh?" asked Jude. Tom and Shazzer had each pulled out a cigarette to smoke, but had at least had the courtesy to keep back; ever since she'd gotten pregnant she'd stopped, and had felt a bit ill at the thought of starting again.

"Hudson's opened when I was about six or so," Mark offered. "I have vivid memories of my parents taking me on their opening day. Bunting everywhere, and a live brass band. It was great fun."

"You remember their opening?" Bridget asked.

"Of course I do," said Mark with a barely suppressed smile. "It was the largest ice cream cone I'd ever eaten. Bigger than my head. Vanilla with fudge stripes."

Bridget laughed. "It sounds like it made a great impression."

"I think even more excited than me was my father. Terrible sweet tooth. Loves their fresh strawberry ice cream."

Jude was smiling and chuckling too. "I presume they have chocolate?"

"Of course." Mark said this at the same time Bridget did, and they both chuckled as they did.

"Good." Jude dug into her handbag. "I'm gonna sneak in a quick fag."

"Have a drag off of Sharon's," said Bridget. "We're nearly there."

As Jude fell back to do so, Bridget chuckled. "I'd just assumed it'd always been there, since time immemorial," she said, then looked up to him. He had a relaxed, easy expression on his face. It suited him well; she had seen so much of him looking worried on her behalf that it was nice to see him looking… normal. With a playful grin, she added, "You're practically ancient."

He looked to her, then smiled. "Yes, I have nearly five whole years of wisdom and knowledge yet to impart to you."

Naturally, this made her laugh. "Isn't that redundant?" she asked.

"Of course not," he said. "Knowledge is being aware that tomatoes are a fruit. Wisdom is keeping them out of a fruit cocktail."

She could not help laughing again, and reached to playfully pat his upper arm. "You _are_ wise."

They turned the corner, and just as she remembered, prominently on the corner of the high street, there stood the brown brick façade of Hudson's. She felt an irrational glee overtake her. "Oh, it hasn't changed a bit," she blurted without thought.

"It really hasn't," said Mark. He stepped forward and opened he door for her.

Immediately upon entering, with Jude, Sharon and Tom behind her, her eyes fixed on the array of ice cream flavours. She only cared to find the chocolate on which she had practically been raised.

"Bridget?"

She turned at the sound of her own name; she expected fully to see either Mr or Mrs Hudson, who were usually still to be found behind the counter. It was, instead, Elaine Darcy, Mark's mother.

"Hi!" she said. Mrs Darcy reached to hug her, taking her a little by surprise.

"You're looking very well since last I saw you. I didn't know you were still in Grafton Underwood."

Bridget drew back. "I'm going back today. Thanks again for the biscuits."

"Of course."

Malcolm, his father, was there too, and he offered a hug to her as well.

"Good to see you, dear," he said tenderly.

"Ah, I—oh, Mark!" Elaine began, then noticed her son; it was very evident that Mark's presence was a surprise to his mother, which Bridget found very curious.

"Hello, Mother," said Mark. Was it her imagination, or did he look a little nervous?

"Mark," said Sharon; Bridget turned to see she had an evil, impish grin on her face. "Wasn't it your mum who told you to come today?"

Mark opened his mouth to speak, but his mother beat him to it. "We had no idea he was here," said Elaine.

"You'd think he was living here again, as much as he's been in Grafton Underwood lately," said Malcolm with a chuckle. A little of his ice cream was dribbling onto his hand, which his mother pointed out.

"I think Grafton Underwood's charms have recently become much more attractive to him," said Elaine with a smile.

"I'm just here with my friends…" she said, trying to push down the confusion she was feeling. Mark had come of his own accord, and what precisely did his mother mean? "Sharon, Jude, Tom, these are Mark's parents, Malcolm and Elaine."

"Hi," said one; "Hello," said the others, all at the same time.

"I remember seeing you at the reception," said Elaine with a smile, "though I don't recall we were introduced."

"It's really nice to meet you," said Jude. Bridget noticed she was smiling too. "I'd met your son before at work, but today's really the first time we've talked on a personal level. Anyway, very grateful for his assistance to Bridge."

"As I'm sure he well knows," said Elaine. "I think he's a little embarrassed by all the attention." Indeed, Mark appeared to be a bit flushed, far more than could be accounted by sun exposure.

"Come on, come on," said Malcolm Darcy, "they came for ice creams, let's get ice creams. My treat."

"Now I feel I'm about five again," said Bridget, sidling up to Mark as they queued up for cones.

She was gratified to see a smile. "I'm feeling about the same. Only perhaps… eight."

"So," she said quietly as her friends decided on their ice cream choices, "what'll you have? I see they still have the vanilla with fudge stripes."

"I think I'll try something else," he said thoughtfully as they moved forward to the glass-fronted case. "Something out of my comfort zone." He turned then and looked to her; she thought she saw a fleeting smile but then turned away quickly when he gave his order: "I'll have whatever she's having."

She ordered her double dark chocolate cone but her thoughts were not on the creamy, cold treat. Clearly Mark wasn't there at his mother's request, which meant that he was there of his own accord. He'd made the drive out of concern that she get back to London, and for no other reason. Then there was what his mother said about Grafton Underwood's charms. Was it in fact possible that he did have feelings for her?

Would it be so bad if he did?

_Yes, yes it would_, she thought, _because I'm still technically married, and everything's so… confusing._

"Bridget, your ice cream," Mark said, snapping her out of her reverie. "It's dripping onto your hand."

She looked to where the dark rivulets were edging down over her thumb. "Whoops," she said, then tilted her head to first lick the chocolate off, then lick the ice cream itself. "I'm such a mess at times."

"It's all right." It was Tom, who put his free arm around her shoulders, squeezing in a brotherly way. "We love you just as you are."

She laughed, glancing to where Sharon and Jude had come to stand forming a partial circle around her. She then glanced to Mark. He didn't look amused so much as pensive. He offered a small smile, then began to eat his own ice cream, focusing what seemed an inordinate amount of attention on the cone.

They found a place to sit outside and enjoy the treat, and after they were done, many thanks were plied upon the senior Darcy for his treat. "Bah, don't mention it," he said, looking a little embarrassed too. "Makes me feel good to treat the young ones now and again." He turned to Bridget. "Glad to see you looking so much like yourself, dear. Hope to see you again soon."

After a brief conversation with their son, the Darcys bid them adieu; the five of them then began the walk back to The Gables. "Are you all set to go back to London?" Mark asked.

"Yes, have my things together," she said. "Will you be driving back too?"

"Mark," said Sharon, "why don't you join us at Bridget's flat?" Bridget turned and looked at Sharon. That small, devilish smile was back again. What was she up to?

"Oh, we can caravan!" said Jude. "Bridge, you can ride with him, since he doesn't know where your flat is."

Bridget was very much aware of the fact that Mark had not yet agreed to anything. He simply looked to her. "I'd be happy to take you," he said.

"Thanks," said Bridget.

As they approached the house—more specifically, towards Mark's silver BMW—Tom teased, "Well, I can see why she'd rather ride with Mark. The _Mini_ could recline comfortably in the back seat." Bridget chuckled and noticed Mark doing the same.

"Let me say goodbye to my parents, get my bag and we can be on the road," Bridget said.

As she went into the house to get her travel bag, her parents said their goodbyes to her friends, and when she returned she found her mother giving Mark Darcy a hug. "I know I've thanked you a hundred times already," she said, "but I will always feel like it's not enough."

He looked a bit sheepish, but was accepting the hug warmly. "I would do it again in a heartbeat," he said; as he did, he looked straight at Bridget and smiled.

After equally warm goodbye hugs with her parents, they headed to the vehicles. Mark popped open the boot. Jude called, "You've got your mobile, right?"

Bridget patted her hip pocket, through which she could feel the distinct shape of the phone. "Yep. Fully charged."

"Let's be off, then."

As they rolled down the drive then on the way back to the main roadway, Bridget giggled as she realised she was still wearing the jelly mules that she'd dug out of her closet when she'd first arrived.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"These shoes."

"What's wrong with them?"

"They're hopelessly out of date."

"They're nice, and they look comfortable."

She laughed again. "Perhaps I'll revive a fashion trend in the months to come and London will be swept with the jelly mule craze."

"I can't see how they ever fell out of style. They're very flattering on you."

She couldn't tell if he was taking the piss, but then it occurred to her that with what she was wearing—the denim capris, in particular—he might have been paying her an oblique compliment about her legs. She didn't quite know what to say to this except for an awkward, "Thanks." Her mobile began to vibrate just then, and she arched a little and twisted in order to try to pull it out of her pocket. At his confused and frankly alarmed look at her contortion, she explained, "It's ringing."

"Ah."

She was able to retrieve it before the caller disconnected and she brought the mobile to her ear. "Hello?"

"Bridge, it's Jude."

She chuckled. "Long time no—"

Jude interrupted. "Shush. Don't say anything. We have made an astounding discovery."

"What?" she asked, then mouthed to Mark, "Sorry."

"It's okay," he mouthed back.

"Well, I mentioned this to Tom and he told me what you told him."

"You're being very vague."

"_Mark_, durr," said Jude. "It's so obvious he's hot for you."

Bridget fought the urge to shoot a glance at him, hoped desperately that he could not discern through the earpiece, at his distance, what Jude was saying. "What? Why?" She willed them to understand: _Why would you say this to me, other than to torture me at the start of a two hour drive?_

There was a rustle then Tom was on the line. "Your mother was _totally_ right, Bridgeliiiiine. He's _absolutely_ in love with you."

"Tom, I—"

"Now's not a good time to dissect this, I know," he said.

"Then why did you call—I mean," she corrected, darting a glance in Mark's direction, "I only saw you, like, ten minutes ago."

"When we make important, earth-shattering discoveries," drawled Tom, "it is absolutely essential they be shared at once."

"I'm hanging up now," she said. "You're going to kill my battery."

"What about you—"

She knew with what Tom was going to finish that question, and she did not want to discuss it. "Goodbye." She stuffed the phone into the seat beside her thigh and sighed. She didn't know what she felt about anything; she was in a state of utter limbo, remnants of an aching loss and disintegrating marriage chief among her current problems. Was it possible it was only a week ago? It seemed unreal. In any case, she did not need her friends making diagnoses on the basis of one summer afternoon.

"I take it that was our caravan partner?" Mark asked with an odd coolness.

"Yep," she said as she thought, _Oh God, did he hear?_ She forced a bright smile. "Nice afternoon for a drive."

"It is." After a pause, he said, "I can… switch on some music."

"Sure."

She nearly started to chuckle when the quiet strains of a string quartet filled the cabin. "Is this all right?" he asked earnestly.

"Oh, it's fine," she said, and she realised it was more than fine. It was soothing and pleasant. Neither said anything more for several songs. Her gaze fixed on a point on the horizon; the smooth ride and the lull of the cello made her feel a little drowsy, at least until he spoke again.

"The country did you a world of good."

"Yes," she said. "It really did." She turned to look at him. "It's going to be strange, going back. I feel a lot better, but I… I'm actually a bit worried I'm going to break down all over again."

"I have a very strong feeling that you'll be just fine."

She looked forward again. "I wish I felt nearly as confident." She sighed. "I haven't even talked to Daniel in days."

"He probably understands," said Mark. "I do know he was pursuing… well. Let's not ruin the drive with the real world."

"I'll be back there soon enough," she said with a sigh, though she did wonder what exactly he was pursuing. The doctor's appointment for a vasectomy? Oh… the divorce? "Soon enough," she repeated.

Just then Mark's mobile rang; out of habit, she supposed, he flicked his thumb and answered it through a control on the steering wheel. "Darcy speaking," he said, glancing to her.

"Mark, it's your mother," came the clear female voice through the speakers, replacing the sound of classical music. "About what I said before… I'm sorry."

"Mother," he said in an almost dangerous tone, but she barrelled on.

"No, it was presumptuous. _Clearly_ it was just a platonic outing." Elaine sighed. "So how _is_ Bridget? She is _looking_ well, but it's not always easy to tell." Bridget turned to stare out the window again, unable to really see anything. What the—what did Elaine mean now?

…

Elaine Darcy was usually a very cautious, courteous woman. It was her habit before addressing a sensitive subject to ask if she was interrupting anything, if it was all right to speak, if he was alone and could have a private conversation. For whatever reason, however, her caution and courtesy had abandoned her that day, very much to her son Mark's mortification.

The conversation that he'd had with her at the ice cream shop, in which she had intimated he was moving too quickly by romantically pursuing a woman, one who was not even yet a divorcee, by driving all the way up on the chance she needed driving back… not to mention that she'd been annoyed that he had implicated her in his white lies. To this he had countered with the explanation that while yes, it had been impetuous of him to drive up unannounced and unexpected, and foolish to fib about how he'd come to be there, Bridget had in fact insisted he not leave when he'd intended, then had herself proposed the ice cream trip; that it was nothing but a gathering of friends.

All of this passed through his mind in a fraction of a second; another fraction was spent on formulating what on earth he could say next when it became unnecessary for him to say anything.

"Really, I'm doing much better," piped up Bridget, her smile evident in her voice. "Thanks for asking."

"Bridget?" asked Elaine, surprise evident in her voice. "Oh, oh my. I'm so sorry, I should have—well, never mind, I'm just glad you're all right. And Mark, sorry again."

He knew she meant for both this embarrassment, and her earlier statement. "It's all right."

"Drive safely, and talk to you soon." She disconnected. The music returned.

There was no way he could avoid explaining about what his mother had been going on, and the longer he waited the more awkward he would feel doing it. "Bridget, I'm sorry for that," he said quietly. "My mother… well, she was under the assumption that I am… well… doing my best to. Well. When you're not even a week out of, er, hospital." He looked over quickly to see that she was wearing an expression of utter befuddlement.

Then she smiled and began to laugh. "Well, that clears _everything_ up."

In retrospect it had not been very coherent, and he began to chuckle too. He knew he should have explained further, but he did not want to run the risk of saying something that wasn't true, like 'Despite how it may appear, I'm not really attracted to you', for starters. "So," he said, leaning on the very first thing he recalled ever saying to her: "Have you read any good books lately?"

No response. He shot a glance to her to see she had a hand over her mouth; he thought perhaps she was going to be sick until he realised she was fighting back a laugh until she couldn't fight it any longer. The sound of her laughing filled the cabin, and he loved to hear it; it made him laugh, too.

He knew he'd avoided the real explanation, and she seemed to know it too, but she didn't seem to care… which he could tell by the beaming smile she offered to him once she'd regained her breath, a smile that rivalled anything he'd seen her offer her friends at the table.

A sense of calm washed over him. She might not be willing or able to jump into anything new with him just yet, but he thought that the future had a brighter promise than it had only this morning.

…

Tomorrow was going to be a very strange, undoubtedly awkward day.

As far as Daniel knew Bridget was intending on returning to work the next day, and if her friends contacting him for the key to the flat was any indication, she was not likely to return to spend the night in the flat they'd shared since they'd gotten married.

He tried to distract himself by poring over work-related documents on his laptop, but it did no good. Not even a quick browse on his favourite websites cheered him at all. He glanced to the time—ten in the evening. He wondered if she was still en route, back in town—

His mobile rang just then, startling him, making him chuckle because he could not help but think of Bridget's so-called ability to make her phone ring with thought vibes. He was not surprised when he saw who it was. "Bridge," he said with a smile as he answered it. "Believe it or not, I was just thinking of you."

He heard her laugh lightly. "I just wanted to let you know I'm back in London and will be in the office tomorrow."

Something about her voice sounded different. It was stronger. She sounded happier. He was glad for it. "Good," he said. "The place could use having your face around again."

She chuckled again. "If you ever repeat this I'll deny it, but I've missed working a bit."

"Wouldn't dream of repeating it," he said. "Listen, I didn't want to bother you while you were out of town, but… I did contact a solicitor and he's looking into things for us." He paused a moment, unsure if he should proceed, but realised there was no time like the present. "It may take some time before anything can be official."

She was quiet. "Oh?"

He explained what he had discussed with Jason McCarthy—he couldn't tell if the no-exception, minimum marriage period was as much of a surprise to her as it was to him, though he thought he heard her gasp—then added, "He'll want to have a formal meeting, and since there likely isn't any ground on which to annul, we'll likely need to do legal separation, then divorce when we're able."

"Okay," she said. It said a lot that her voice was steady and just as clear and strong as it was before; this spoke of acceptance. "Just let me know about the meeting."

"I will."

They were both quiet for many seconds. "Well. You should go tuck yourself in, get a good night's rest."

She made a soft sound of amusement. "Feels like it's a school night."

"Be sure to pick out something to wear tonight," he joked.

"Yeah." After a pause, she said, "I think we can do it, can't we? Stay friends, I mean?"

He laughed with a sense of relief, one he didn't realise he needed until it washed over him. "Of course we can. So, you'll be all right tonight?"

"I'll be fine," she said. "See you tomorrow."

…

Once Bridget disconnected the call, she exhaled loudly, but strangely enough did not feel the welling, tingling emotion that told her tears were imminent. It was a welcome development to her. She sat back against the high end of the chaise-style sofa and looked around the flat. It was quiet save for the ticking of a clock in the flat and the sound of passing vehicles; it was only a matter of time until the train rolled by, something she hadn't needed to think about in all too long, something she'd also kind of missed. The room was mostly dark except for the pale golden light cast by the lamp. On the tables was evidence of her company tonight—coffee mugs, biscuit packets—and this made her smile. It made her very happy that despite the fact that Mark was polar opposite to them in so many ways, her friends had been so pleasant and kind towards him. She actually chuckled aloud at the recollection of Mark's expression when Tom rolled out his impression (as he had over lunch) of some Tory he referred to as "The Gherkin", and how they'd all laughed uproariously when Mark had revealed that the man had been a friend of his.

"Well," he'd then admitted, "more acquaintance than friend, really. He's a bit of a twit."

Mark hadn't stayed long, just enough to have a cup of decaf coffee and a few biscuits after their early takeaway dinner before telling her he had to go prepare for work in the morning, claiming he was a bit tired from the drive. Very likely, he was, but it allowed him to sidestep further scrutiny.

That did not stop the three of them from making wild speculation anyway for the duration of the evening.

"Obviously he doesn't want to freak you out."

"He's as nervous as a cat. It's really sort of sweet."

"Are you sure he's not just after… _one thing_?"

This last dramatic question, which naturally had come from Tom with an appropriately cocked eyebrow, had made Bridget laugh out loud. "I am quite sure. Unless he's _really_ desperate. He's seen me looking my worst."

"And he yet still seems to like you," Jude had observed.

_He does, doesn't he?_ she thought now as she stared across the room to nothing in particular. She cautioned herself to take it easy, though. The last thing she wanted to do was to mistake friendly affection for something more and fall into an ill-advised rebound fling; he deserved better than that, and so did she. _You need time to be just you before you can be part of an 'us' again_, she told herself.

Sound advice.


	9. Chapter 9

**It's a Nice Day to Start Again**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 78,546  
Chapters: 11 + epilogue  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Chapter 9.

_Mon, 31 Jul_

The first day back was in some ways easier than Bridget had expected, but in others, at least initially, it was harder. Emotionally she felt fairly strong, and was not once near to tears. Perpetua was especially nice to her, nicer even still than after the honeymoon; not that she was ever mean, but usually much bossier and prone to delegate her own work to Bridget. She wondered if Daniel had asked her to be extra kind, but she hadn't even seen him and wondered where he was. Either way, she appreciated the effort, especially as the morning went on, because she soon realised that there was a contingent of co-workers who were treating her as if she had an incurable disease, averting their eyes, falling silent when she came nearby. However, they weren't nearly as bad as those who pretended she wasn't there at all.

_If this keeps up_, she thought, _I may well start crying again_.

Daniel turned the tide by coming in at last bearing a bunch of gorgeous, fragrant flowers for her and a tender smile. He clasped her hand, bent to kiss her cheek then offered her a smile. "You look great," he said.

"Liar," she smirked.

"All right, I'm a liar," he said resignedly. "You're too bloody thin."

At this she chuckled. "Thanks for these. Lovely."

She was very much aware of all eyes in proximity fixed on this exchange. He turned and commanded Greg from Marketing to "go and dig up a carafe or something" from the break room/kitchen area. "And put some water in it, will you?"

"Yes, sir," he said. "Will do."

With this, as if with the flick on a magic wand, things returned to a semblance of normalcy, or at least that's how it seemed to her; chatter and bustle apparently burst back into existence. After Greg returned with the water carafe, she slipped the flowers, beautiful stargazer lilies, into it.

Daniel said, "I know I just got here, but I'd love to take you to lunch."

She regarded him thoughtfully. This was no desperate ploy to try to win her back; he sincerely just wanted to treat her. "I'd love to go."

Rather than whisk her off to his favourite posh lunch spot, he instead took her to a small pub just a couple of blocks away. He knew she preferred the cosier atmosphere and the mountain of chips they served with their fish. Between casual discussions of things like the logistics of her retrieving the things that remained at the flat on Clink Street, they had a fantastic time together. It reminded her of the earliest days of their dating without the constant distraction and tension of their sexual magnetism; in some ways the lack of it made their interaction even better. Easier.

_That we could go through what we did and come out still friends so quickly is a miracle_, she thought as they walked back to their office; she had her arm through his crooked elbow and the longer they walked, the more she leaned on him for support.

"Sorry, Bridge, I should have thought to get a taxi."

"No, it's quite all right. I could use the walking, honestly."

After a moment, he asked, "I'll need to ring up Jason for a meeting. When are you free?"

"Any time's okay," she said. "Sounds like our options are limited, and pretty straightforward."

"Yeah." He laughed under his breath. "It's funny and somehow fitting that Jason was referred to me by Mark bloody Darcy. Sorry. Habit."

"It's all right." She smiled, though she was a little surprised that Daniel and Mark had talked together about this marital situation. "He's a good guy?"

"Jason? Seems to be. Can't imagine Darce would send me to anyone he didn't like or trust." He added after a pause, "Though chances are it wasn't _me_ he was thinking of." It seemed a curious thing to say; the implication was that Daniel was aware of Mark's fondness for her. She wondered if he knew more than he was letting on. "I mean, you are friends, aren't you? I think he only deigns to speak to me because of you."

_Silly Bridget_, she thought. "I don't know if that's true any more."

"You may have a point," said Daniel. "There was a time when he would have just hung up on me."

"He must realise that if I love you," she said, "you can't be all that bad."

Daniel glanced up, as if inspired from a bolt from the blue. "That seems so obvious now. You know you're a bloody genius, Jones, don't you?"

It was the first time in quite a while that he had called her that, and it made her smile. It served to reassure her that they could in fact be friends beyond the legal split. "Well, you _were_ friends once upon a time. Surely you had a lot more good times together than the one pretty bad time."

"True," said Daniel pensively. "Very true."

They returned to the office and resumed working with no further evidence of uneasiness or awkwardness. Bridget felt happy and more reassured than ever that things would really be okay, after all.

…

_Weds, 2 Aug_

Shortly after lunch on Monday, Daniel had messaged her to let her know he was on the line with the solicitor, and whether or not she had anything conflicting on Wednesday afternoon. "No, is fine," she had typed back to him, relieved to have a fixed appointment.

However, now that it was Wednesday afternoon and she was driving with Daniel towards the appointment, she felt a building apprehension. She had no idea what to expect; certainly she had never done anything like this before. Was she supposed to have prepared something in advance? Brought paperwork? Researched something?

"What's wrong?" Daniel asked, glancing to the side as he drove.

"Nothing," she said quickly, then sighed; he'd know she was lying. "I'm just a bit nervous, is all."

"Don't be," said Daniel. "He's very nice. I promise he won't bite off your head."

She laughed, but still felt uneasy.

The personal assistant was very pleasant though barely cracked a smile as she brought them into Jason McCarthy's office. He stood as they entered and walked around to the front of the desk. "Daniel, nice to see you again."

"Bridge, this is Jason McCarthy," said Daniel. "And Jason, this is Bridget."

He extended his hand to shake hers. "A pleasure to meet you."

There was something about him that put her immediately at ease; he was very familiar somehow and quite handsome to boot. In an instant she realised that he looked like that Luther character from the telly; so the character was a bit of a mental case police detective, but the actor had always seemed very nice in interviews. "Nice to meet you too."

"Please, have a seat."

Daniel took the leftmost of the two chairs facing the desk, and she took the other, while Jason took the seat behind the desk. "Well, I'll get straight down to it," he said. "This probably will come as no surprise to you, but there's nothing to be done about an annulment. The paperwork's in perfect order, and none of the other conditions apply."

In the periphery of her vision, she saw Daniel nod slightly.

"So that means we can begin legal separation, but cannot do anything about an actual divorce until May of next year."

She nodded now, too. "Understandable," she said.

"Judging from the fact that you're here together, I'm assuming that things are… amicable."

"Yes," said Daniel. Bridget nodded.

"So what are your thoughts on formalising the split?" Jason asked.

…

"You have a visitor," came the pleasant voice of Rebecca, Mark's personal assistant, over the telephone. "A Mr McCarthy."

Mark thought this could have been a coincidence, but given the recommendation he had given the previous week he doubted it was. "By all means, have him come in."

Jason entered; frankly, the man looked a bit harried.

"This is a nice surprise," said Mark, then joked, "To what do I owe the honour of you coming all this way from the other side of the building?"

"Oh, this required far more than just a call," said Jason, taking a seat. "That referral you gave me—do you know they are both certifiable?"

"Pardon?"

"Three minutes into the joint consultation," he said, "they began fighting about spousal support." Mark's stomach sank; it seemed too outside of her character to make such demands. "Oh, no, no, _no_. it's not at all that," Jason continued; Mark's expression must have been transparent. "He wants to give her more than to what she's entitled, and she is steadfastly refusing to take _anything_, not even the fucking towels his aunt gave them at the reception."

Mark chuckled. "Well, I can't blame her," he said. "I understand they were fairly hideous."

"You take the point though, don't you?" Jason said, sounding almost desperate. "In all my years of practising, I have _never_ encountered anything like this."

"I imagine not," Mark said, feeling relieved; he had no need to be disappointed after all. In fact, he admired her more, and reluctantly respected Daniel a bit more for wanting to the proper thing by supporting her. "So how did you get this resolved?"

"I interrupted their bitching, told them that they should take the time to come to an agreement, because if they did not, the court would do so come the divorce, and that could draw things out even further," he said. "That quieted them. I also told them that if they could come to a basic understanding right then and there, I could have separation papers drawn up by Monday for them."

"And they did?"

"Yes, thank God," said Jason. "I remained as professional as I could, but I think the signs of strain were obvious. They were looking at me like I was the mad one. For possessions and property, they agreed to take out of the marriage with what they brought into it. As for support, he grudgingly accepted a deferral of further discussion, and we're working now on the same 'take out what you brought in' premise. I think I can parlay that into a divorce settlement when the time comes. _If_ I can keep my sanity." By the time he got to the end of this explanation, he was chuckling and smiling too. "They are quite a pair. So how do you know Daniel?"

"I know both of them, actually," Mark said. "He and I were in uni together, and she and I both grew up in the same small town north of London."

"Small world, Darcy," said Jason. "Thanks for letting me vent. I know I can trust you with a professional confidence. I didn't trust myself not to take this home to my wife." He smiled as he rose from the chair. "It's funny, when Daniel first came in, I have to admit I'd pegged him for a man who'd got married too soon and on impulse, had grown tired of his wife, had met someone new and now just wanted to be free of the entanglement as soon as possible."

_That wouldn't have been so far off_, thought Mark, _had Daniel married any other woman._

Jason then added, "It's clear now that he still cares very much about her and just wants to make things as easy as possible for her, though I think the support thing may cause problems. Not the same problems I'm used to, mind you, but it could definitely complicate things come divorce time if one of them doesn't give."

They said their goodbyes and as Mark took to his desk once more, he realised it was about time he headed for home. As he packed papers into his attaché, his mobile went off. He looked at the display. Daniel Cleaver. He considered not answering but figured Daniel would just persist. "Darcy," he said coolly on answering.

"What kind of arse have you sent me to?" Daniel said. "Do you know he's trying to talk me out of paying support?"

"Talk you out of it?" asked Mark; he had not gotten any such impression from Jason's words.

"Okay, not out of it altogether, but out of paying what I want to pay her."

"He knows what he's doing," said Mark. "And not to put too fine a point on it, you _were_ only married for three months."

"So?" shot back Daniel. "I've bought thousand pound presents for birds I only slept with twice. For someone who means that much to me… I want to make sure she's taken care of. It's the least I can do for all of the pain and suffering I've put her through."

"I understand, I really do," said Mark. "But you'll have to weigh this against prolonging the process. You may have to compromise, even if it isn't as much as you want to give her, so that you both can get closure."

Daniel didn't reply right away, and when he did his voice was much subdued. "I'll keep that in mind."

"You do that," said Mark, feeling somewhat sombre himself now. Daniel thanked him for listening then said goodbye, but Mark barely heard it. Only now did he realise fully that his own marriage had not failed because of Daniel's folly; the infidelity had only hastened the inevitable. If she had really loved her husband, she would not have strayed; if he had truly loved her, if he'd been able to make her happy, nothing, no _one_, would have been able to come between them.

He only knew this now that he actually knew love.

He buttoned his suit jacket then closed his attaché; his thoughts turned idly towards dinner as the safest and most mundane thing he could conjure. He left his office, then made his way through the almost labyrinthine hallways and towards the exit door.

The sight that met him there surprised him. Standing on the steps, leaned up against the handrail, was the very woman about whom he had just been thinking. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and the look on her face spoke of extreme displeasure.

"Hello, Bridget."

"Mark Darcy," she said sternly. "I do not appreciate your referring Daniel to someone who's going to treat me like an invalid child."

"Jason does not—"

"Do you know what Daniel wants to do? He wants to give me some kind of support payment," she said, working up a right head of steam. "I don't need it and I _don't _want it. I've been able to take care of myself since I graduated from uni, yet these two _men—_" She said the word as if it were a pejorative. "—are trying to insist I take it, like I'm some sort of helpless little girl."

"I happen to agree with them," he said.

"Oh, you _would_," she said, "you _man_."

"Not because I think you're helpless, nor do I think Daniel thinks you're helpless, but because it's part of the process," he said, deciding to take a legal tack. "He makes a lot more than you do; I can guarantee it."

"I don't care," she said. "It doesn't matter to me."

"And that's fine," he said. "But if you and Daniel don't come to a mutually settled-upon agreement, it'll go to the courts for a decision, and that can take a very long time. Bear in mind that you cannot file for divorce—"

"Until May. I know. Believe me, I know." She sighed, then looked over to him. "Why can't Daniel be the one to cave?"

"It's not a matter of caving or giving in," he said. "It's not a hardship for him, and he wants to do this for you. Accept it if you want a quick separation."

She regarded him again with an intense look, then smiled slowly, almost devilishly; quite reminiscent, Mark thought, of something he'd seen in the paddling pool video, directly after chomping into a piece of cake almost larger than her head. "Fine, I'll accept his offer," she said. "But only to assuage whatever guilt it is he has, and only so things don't get hung up in court."

He smiled. "I'm glad to hear," he said. Only then did he truly take in her appearance: tailored blouse, short skirt, tights, heeled shoes. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, swaying in the light early evening breeze. She must have come directly after work, but she looked gorgeous and (much to his dismay) quite desirable. "Do you want—"

He had only intended on asking her if she wanted a lift home, but the notion of eating again asserted itself when his stomach rumbled:

"—to have dinner?"

Her eyes went wide. "Dinner?"

"I was going to go get something to eat anyway," he said, feeling a bit flustered, "and I'd much rather not eat on my own."

She stood up straight from where she was resting against the handrail. "Sure," she said, walking near to him, taking him by the arm and by surprise. "Lead on."

The touch of her hand, even through the layers of his jacket and shirt, sent a spark of electricity through him. He hoped she couldn't tell; it would have mortified him.

…

It was very sweet, really, how he shuffled his feet a little when she took his arm, almost as if he'd tripped over his own toes. "Where did you plan on going for something to eat?"

"I wasn't sure," he said in an uncharacteristically unsteady voice. "Perhaps Italian."

"Oh, do you know a good place?"

"Yes, quite."

"Oh, good," she said. "Now that all of my righteous indignation is gone, I'm suddenly very hungry."

He laughed in a low, throaty manner; it was not unattractive, she realised. "I suppose that could work up an appetite."

As they walked to his car, she could think only of the source of her earlier indignation, and the smug satisfaction in the conclusion to which she had come; she'd accept Daniel's settlement all right, but that money was destined for greater things. She smiled.

"You're looking very pleased," he said.

She glanced over to him, and realised that she was. "I am."

As he opened the passenger door, he confessed, "I'll be honest; I didn't think it would be so easy to persuade you."

"Into having dinner?" she asked.

He instantly flushed red. "Into accepting Daniel's offer," he said, then smiled. "I sort of walked right into that one."

"You did," she said, then grinned. It was rather fun, she realised, to be a bit flirty with him. It felt liberating. "Though you look very handsome with a bit of colour."

He looked down as his colour deepened. "Go on, get in."

The Italian restaurant was one with which she was very familiar; not too casual, not too posh, and had a wide variety of pasta dishes. "Do you come here often?" Bridget asked as she took his arm again.

He cleared his throat. "I think I came here once before," he said. "Forgettable companion, unforgettable food."

"Well, hope I can help make up for the last companion being an utter cow," she said. "Can I guess who it was? Was it that Natasha woman?"

He stared at her as if she had psychic powers. "You will more than make up for the cow," he said.

When they were seated, instead of getting what she always got (their superior spag bog), she said in a deferential tone, "I'll have whatever the gentleman's having." With a nervous throat-clearing, Mark consulted the menu a second time then chose the spaghetti _alla carbonara_ and a bottle of Chianti.

"I really think you'll like it," he said as their server withdrew with the order.

"It's got bacon in it," she said. "What's not to like?"

The dish and the wine was better than she'd expected; it was quite possible that she had found a new favourite dish. By the end of the meal she was feeling even more audaciously flirty. She touched his hand a couple of times from across the table, which made him drop his fork and fumble over his words, respectively.

"Shall we do dessert?" she asked as the dinner plates were cleared away. "We're already on a roll."

"If you like," he said. His gaze was very intense, yet he seemed so restrained and reluctant.

"I think we ought to do," she said. "I think if I tried to walk right now I might topple over. I'm… not used to wine."

It was the first thought she'd had in hours about the miscarriage, and the wine magnified her moroseness about it in a very abrupt fashion. Mark noticed at once.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded, offering a bright smile and putting her hand over his again in an effort to cheer herself. "Fine, just fine."

He ordered some tiramisu and espresso. "Best make it decaffeinated," he wisely said. "I'd rather not be kept up all night."

…

As he said it, she smiled again to him, her eyes bright and sparkling; _God help me_, he thought as he drank in her loveliness, _but I can think of one thing I'd like keeping me up all night…_

He didn't know what precisely was encouraging her to be so friendly, even flirtatious with him, and though the attention was catching him off guard repeatedly, he had to admit he very much liked seeing confirmation that maybe she was attracted to him, after all. _Or maybe_, he thought fatalistically, _she was just this playful with everyone_.

He watched as she enjoyed her tiramisu, licking mascarpone from her fingertips and drinking delicately from her demitasse cup; he continued feeling like an unsure schoolboy.

When it came time to leave, he paid the bill then walked out with her on his arm again. She leaned on him to walk a bit steadier; he had mostly restrained himself because he knew he'd be driving, so consequently she'd had more wine than he had.

They were walking towards the car in that comfortable silence, in the darkening twilight, when they passed by a row of shop windows that were brightly illuminated now that the sun had set. It was only after they'd passed them that he heard her make a sound, felt her stop in her tracks. Then she was breaking away from him, leaning against the building, shielding her face with her hands.

Alarmed, he said, "Bridget? What—" But he stopped, because he knew: the window they'd just passed was displaying a staggering array of baby clothing, little overalls, jumpers, sunhats, shoes… "Come here," he said with quiet authority, pulling her into his arms. She folded into his embrace and sobbed.

"I'm sorry," she managed. "I just saw the tiny shirts and I lost it."

"It's all right," he said. "It's okay. I imagine you'll get ambushed with this sort of thing long after you think you've got a handle on it. Emotions can be tricky things." He ran his hands up and down between her shoulder blades in an effort to console and comfort her.

After many moments her tears and sobs subsided at last. "Feel so foolish," she said.

"Please, please don't. I understand."

He dug into his suit jacket pocket for a handkerchief and gave it to her. She accepted it with a forlorn "thanks" then brought it to her face to wipe under her eyes and blow her nose. "I'll, er, launder it before I give it back to you. Trust me, I think you want me to."

He chuckled then gazed down upon her as she drew back. "I've got a score of them," he said.

She smiled. Her eye makeup was mostly gone now; she still looked beautiful to him. Somehow the lack of mascara and shadow made her eyes bluer and more luminous. _You're being ridiculous_, he scolded himself. _You're romanticising a crying jag._

"Thank you," she said. "Can't imagine I'd've done at all well hitting a trigger like that on my own." She laughed a little. "I did warn you once about emotional landmines."

"So you did," he said. "And I'm glad I was here so that you didn't have to go through it on your own." On impulse, he bent and placed a kiss square on the centre of her forehead; almost immediately he regretted taking such a liberty, and he drew back to see her lids were closed, her lips slightly parted, for that split second before she looked up at him. "I should… get you home," he said.

She nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."

From the moment he'd touched his lips to her forehead he came to a sudden and firm decision: he had to keep his distance from her, for weeks, possibly months. Maybe even longer than that. It was clear to him that he could not conceal his feelings any longer, despite actively practising doing so; she needed room to heal and not form attachments to him. He couldn't trust any of her feelings to be anything more than a post-traumatic reaction, and he couldn't take advantage of her that way.

"Everything okay?" she asked once they were driving again. "You're very quiet."

"Oh, I'm fine," he said, affecting a casual air. "It's just a bit later than I thought, and I've got court in the morning."

"Oh," she said. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have insisted on dessert."

"You didn't see me putting up much of a fight."

She laughed. "True."

A short time later he pulled up in front of the flat on Bedale Street. He didn't want the night to end, because he wasn't sure when he'd see her again. He knew, though, that it had to. "Here we are," he said quietly as he switched off the ignition. He got out of the car to open her door; she, in turn, looked up at him with surprise before taking his hand for assistance up and out of the passenger seat.

"Do you—Oh, no, right. Court in the morning."

He nodded. He didn't actually have court, but it was a plausible little white lie. "Ring me when you get up to your flat."

"I'll have to. I've gone and run down my mobile battery _again_."

They each smiled; then, before he knew what was happening, she was placing her hands on his shoulders to press a quick, light, friendly kiss on his cheek. "Thank you again," she said. "For everything tonight."

"Of course." He said it, but he was not at all sure his words were audible, because his voice had quite escaped him. He stood there, fixed to the spot, as he watched her go in through the building door; he didn't move until his mobile began to ring to let him know she was safely inside the flat.

"Goodnight, Bridget," he said, just before disconnecting. _Tonight and many nights to come, until I see you again._

…

He picked up his mobile and smiled to see who was calling by the display. "Well, Mrs Cleaver. You're phoning late."

"Sorry."

"Don't be," Daniel replied. "You know I'm up."

She laughed lightly. "It's true, I do. So I wanted to call you as soon as possible because I've decided to accept your offer."

"Support?" he said. "Fantastic, just bloody fantastic. I'll let Jason know first thing in the morning." He paused. "Forty-thousand, I hope."

"Yes, I won't haggle you any lower," she said.

"Fantastic," he said again. "And to what or to whom do I owe my gratitude for talking sense into your thick skull?" he teased.

"Of all people, Mark Darcy," she said. "Though it shouldn't surprise me. He sided with you and Jason. He convinced me that you weren't going to give up the notion, and fighting it would just prolong everything."

This took Daniel aback, given his advice from the same man to compromise and offer a lowball amount just to get her to accept. "I knew we'd been friends for a reason."

"Maybe you could be friends again," she said with a tone of warning, "if you apologise to him properly."

"Yes, Headmistress," he teased.

"Daniel," she said. "I was wondering. If you don't mind me asking, that is."

"Bridget, I'm your husband," said Daniel. "You may ask me anything you like."

"Mark's ex-wife," she said hesitantly.

It was not what he was expecting at all. "What about her?"

"What was she like? What sort of woman is she, or was she? Did Mark love her very much?" He was considering how to answer, what to say, when she added, "Sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

"No, it's fine," he said, though what she was asking was almost as perplexing as _why_—it had been clear to him that Mark had been showing interest in Bridget, but was it possible that she was interested in him? "She was kind of a… what you'd probably call a jellyfish stick insect," he said. "She was gorgeous, had the right pedigree, and wanted the right sort of husband for appearances… but was not exactly loyal or full of marital fidelity. As you know." He sighed; it was difficult trying to find words for that period of his life. "I think Mark wanted the same… the right sort of wife, in the right sort of profession. He didn't give a toss about love, if you'll pardon the expression."

"So he didn't love her?" she asked.

"I think he thought he did, but you know… I'd've thought if he really had, he would have fought harder for her. After what happened, I mean. Though to be honest, she wasn't what I'd call passionate about _anything_, certainly not about sex. Once was enough for me. Bloody robot."

"You didn't love her either?"

He snorted. "God, no. I was a fool to be seduced by her, but love was never on the table."

She was silent for a long time. "That's so sad," she said. "He married her for all the wrong reasons."

"At the time I think he thought he knew what he was doing. Think he thought he knew her, thought the arrangement into which they were getting would blossom into more than some kind of business partnership. I'm sure it devastated him when that all came crumbling down from a few different directions."

"And so soon afterwards."

"Yes." Daniel said. "And yes, I will apologise, Bridge."

"Good," she said softly. "Good."

"Bridge? Did I answer your question?"

"Yes," she said. "Thanks. You know what, Daniel?"

"What, Bridge?"

"We may not have had a successful marriage, but I don't think we got married for the wrong reasons."

He smiled. "Quite true, Bridge. Quite true."

…

_Weds, 2 Aug_

Insomnia was a bitch.

It wasn't the wine, and it wasn't the decaf espresso. She sat by the window, staring out into the night, watching cars pass as the minutes flew by. Her thoughts were in turmoil, and for the first time in many moons, it wasn't because of her own problems.

_Poor Mark_, she thought. To marry and split in such a short time was one thing, but that the marriage had never even brought him a moment of love or emotional fulfilment… then to have everything end as it had, compounded by the loss of a friendship, the revelation that his wife had not been playing the same game he had… it all made her want to weep. He'd gotten the pain and betrayal without never having gotten anything wonderful to have made it worthwhile.

_He's such a nice man, too_, she thought. _He's kind, he's funny; okay, a bit reserved at times, guarded about himself on a personal level, but that's hardly surprising, after what he's gone through. _She thought of how caring he'd been when she most needed a friend, how generous he had been with his time, and wished desperately there was something she could do for him.

_Why?_ asked a little voice in the recesses of her mind. _Why is it that you care so much?_ The question was itself a revelation, because she realised that she did care very much about him. And _for_ him. For his well-being and his happiness, to the point that she couldn't even get to sleep. What could that mean but—

"You're being ridiculous," she muttered aloud. Of course he'd been kind; he was a good-hearted, honest, loyal person. Even her mother liked him, for God's sake; even her mother had made mention about he was in love with her. Likelier case was that he'd just formed an attachment to her in the same way any altruistic human being would come to feel for a puppy they'd rescued.

_But what if he really was in love with you?_ she insisted. If she hadn't been so silly and full of preconceived notions about him… she might have been more generous to him when it would have mattered most. At the Turkey Curry Buffet.

_He was terrible to you_, she thought. _Rude and dismissive. How could you forget?_

_He had a reason to be in such a bad mood_, she argued with herself. _If you'd perhaps not written him off so quickly… taken the time to find out…_

"This is ridiculous," she said sharply, standing and throwing the pillow she'd been holding to the floor. In a stern tone, she told herself, "You will never get to sleep if you don't actually get into bed."

She tossed and turned but to no avail, and frequent checks of her clock did not help matters, as it became a sadistic countdown until her alarm was to go off. _Calm yourself_, she thought, only this time it was in a deeper baritone. Mark's voice. She pictured herself at dinner, touching his hand, looking up to meet his gaze, reassured by his calm voice as she replayed the evening in her mind.

Before she knew it the alarm was sounding.

…

The rational part of Mark's mind kept telling himself that he should not have a shot of scotch. Alcohol actually prevented deep sleep, REM sleep, that allowed the body to rest and repair.

The non-rational part, however, needed something to soothe his nerves. Thus, he poured a scotch.

The rational part of his mind told him to stick to one shot. He did not need to feel hung over for his non-existent court appearance.

The non-rational part did not care about the consequences; tomorrow morning was none of its concern. It demanded a second shot, and it got one.

Hastily he drank it, then slammed the glass down on the table. _Enough_, he thought. Slightly unsteady on his feet, Mark forced the rational to take the reins of his willpower before he did something stupid. He stood in his shower, allowing steaming hot water to run over his head for a very long time. _The last thing you need to do_, he told himself, _is ring up the likes of Natasha in some effort to find yourself on familiar ground. She's not who you need._

He knew exactly whom he needed, but she was the one woman he could not have… not yet, anyway. He had to give her time. He needed to be patient. Not seeing her, however, for the duration that it would take to give her that space… the thought seemed unbearable.

He got out of the shower, dried himself off, then did the rest of his evening preparations in the hopes that the routine of it would get his mind on track for sleep. To some extent it worked, though not as quickly as he would have liked, and when he did sleep, it was turbulent at best. He could think only of the prime chance he had been given so many months ago on New Year's Day, when he had been so caught up in a past that could never change that he lost sight of what the future could bring him if he gave it a chance.

The sun came all too soon; rough did not begin to describe how Mark felt. He had to pay the penance for his scotch-based, sleep-deprived sin, and again he relied on routine to carry him through to the office. It was not until he got there that he realised he felt like death warmed up.

He punched the buttons on his desk phone.

"Yes?"

"Rebecca," he said, "if you could track down something for a headache and a cup of strong, black coffee, I'd be very grateful."

"Absolutely," she said immediately; she must have noticed how bad he looked.

It was not Rebecca who brought in the coffee and the pain reducer; instead, it was a maniacally grinning Jeremy. "Late night last night?" he asked.

Mark held out his hand, beckoning him to come closer with the requested balm. "Yes," he said. "I'll take those, thank you."

"Not until you tell me who she is."

He stared at Jeremy, realised he was not in any condition to argue, certainly not in one to chase the man down for what he bore. He sighed resignedly. "Only if you promise not to speak a word," he said. "I mean it. Not even to Magda."

Jeremy's brows rose as he handed over the mug and the pills. "Swear to God," he said, drawing a small X over his heart with his thumb. "Nothing. So. There _was_ a she? Please tell me it wasn't N—"

"No," he interrupted firmly. He downed the pills then took a long drink of the coffee; it was too hot, but he didn't care. "I'll preface what I'm about to say with 'It's not at all what you think.'"

"Now I'm really intrigued. Do tell!"

He met Jeremy's gaze. "It's Bridget."

With that, taking advantage of Jeremy's silence, Mark told him everything.


	10. Chapter 10

**It's a Nice Day to Start Again**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 78,546  
Chapters: 11 + epilogue  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Chapter 10.

_Thurs, 10 Aug_

The office seemed almost like a ghost town. A disproportionate number of people from Daniel's immediate office seemed to be on summer holiday that week; consequently, it seemed deserted. It was a great time to get all caught up on the lower priority tasks he'd let sit and get a head start on pulling sales figures for the first part of the quarter, but it still seemed eerily quiet.

A sharp rap at the door caused him to look up. Standing there was Greg from Marketing; he was smiling, but in an anxious way that suggested he was about to enter with the intent of placating a mad dog bent on tearing his throat out.

Daniel waved him in. "Greg, been a while since I've seen you venture into here. What can I do for you?"

"I…" Greg cleared his throat, running his hand back over his short, blond, curly hair. "It's… unusual."

Daniel's brows raised slightly. "Unusual?"

"Of a personal nature."

Daniel's mind went haring off into a million directions at once, but he decided that he would not be able to match whatever Greg actually had to say. "Fire away. Unless, of course, a firearm is involved."

"Oh, ha, no. Very funny, sir," Greg said nervously, but then said nothing more.

Daniel prompted, "Your… question? Request? What is it?"

"Sorry," he said. "I wanted to… ask you about…" He steeled his nerves, then raised his gaze to meet his boss'. "Bridget."

He'd been right. This was the last thing he'd expected to hear from Greg's lips. "What about her?"

"Well, you're splitting up and all, if I understand it."

"We're separated. Legally. Yes." The paperwork had been duly signed and, true to her word, she'd taken the lump sum without another comment, just a sly smirk on her face. Then it dawned on Daniel why Greg would be asking, but decided to probe further anyway. "Why do you want to know?"

His reply was not spoken so much as rapidly exhaled as one long syllable: "Well… I was thinking of asking her for a coffee after work but I wanted to make sure it was okay with you first."

It took Daniel several seconds to parse exactly what it was Greg was saying, and once he did it took all of his self-control not to laugh aloud. "You don't need my permission," said Daniel.

"No?" asked Greg, or rather, squeaked.

"Absolutely not," said Daniel. "Though I would have to resort to violence if you broke her heart."

Greg went ashen.

"Kidding," said Daniel. He levelled a brow-cocked _or-am-I_ look at Greg, though, that made the man flinch visibly. "Go on, ask her for coffee," he said; he found it highly unlikely she'd accept, but it might boost her ego a bit to get that sort of attention, plus it'd be fun to see the sod twist in the wind as she let him down easy.

Greg smiled again, and this time it was easier, more natural. "Thanks, boss. Oh. That's weird."

Daniel nodded; Greg did too, then left the office.

Daniel kept his eye on Greg, not really expecting him to go straight out to ask, but did so anyway. To his utter shock, Greg did in fact go directly over to Bridget's desk. He watched in rapt fascination; it would be too much to race to the door to open it to follow or hear the expected rejection.

Daniel furrowed his brows. Surely he did not just read her lips say "Okay." But then she nodded, and Greg turned away with a proud, beaming smile.

_Well, fuck me_, he thought; s_he agreed. _With all of those questions about the ex-wife, Daniel had been convinced her interests were falling elsewhere; Greg was a nice guy, but boy, was she out of his league. Then Daniel laughed. _What if Darce knew?_

Darcy, who had clearly displayed feelings well beyond friendship; Darcy, who was (it surprised Daniel to think this, given everything that had gone down in the last year) much better suited to make her happy, especially compared to well-meaning but insipid Greg. Daniel decided then that he had to tell Mark—if, for no other reason, to see Mark's reaction. However, he had to let the coffee date happen first. Greg's expressing interest was not enough; no, nothing would prompt Mark Darcy into action faster than another man in active pursuit of the object of his affection.

Daniel couldn't wait to tell him.

…

Greg from Marketing. Bridget had always thought of him as she would a puppy, with his big blue eyes, head full of coarse-looking wheat-coloured hair and perpetual smile, always eager to please. She had seen him around the office often enough, and he seemed genuinely friendly and sweet.

To be perfectly honest, when he'd asked her whether she'd like to have a coffee with him, she'd been too surprised to say anything but "Okay." The poor fellow looked as if he'd braced himself for the worst, so at her affirmative he looked equally surprised, but very, _very_ pleased.

"Great!" he said. "After work tonight?"

She nodded.

"Great!" he said again. "I'll meet you here at your desk."

She couldn't say that she wasn't complimented by his asking, because she was, even if it was only a coffee with Greg the puppy dog. It was nice to know that she still had some sort of appeal to the opposite sex.

As coffee dates went, it wasn't bad; he was pleasant enough, charming and attentive, and she did her best to be an equally attentive companion, but her heart just wasn't in it. Her mind certainly wasn't either; she could not stop thinking of the man with whom she'd had a pleasant supper the week before, and from whom she had not heard again since. She wondered what had happened, and invariably wondered what she'd done to put him off.

"This was really nice," Greg said when they'd done. "You're such a good listener. Thanks for coming out on such short notice." He took in a deep breath—shoring up his courage. "Maybe we can do it again some time?"

She smiled, and felt guilty for the words she was about to deliver. "I had a nice time," she said. "Thank you for asking—I'm really very flattered—and thank you for the coffee."

"I'm flattered you accepted," he gushed.

_Such a puppy_, she thought. She didn't want to hurt his feelings, but she'd better set him straight before his hopes got too high. "I guess… I'm just not ready for this yet. Being involved." She tried to gauge his reaction. "I don't mean to sound like a cliché, but it's not you, it's me."

He nodded. "I understand. I had a feeling it might be too soon, but I've thought—well. Sorry."

"Oh, don't apologise," she said. "I'd like it if we could still be friends."

Greg smiled, and it seemed to be genuine. "I'd like that too."

He offered to give her a lift home, which she accepted; she was suddenly too tired to make the commute all the way there. As he slowed down to a stop in front of her building, she said to him, "Thanks so much."

"It was a pleasure." After a beat, he added, "Take care of yourself. I'll see you tomorrow."

She smiled. "See you."

The walk up the stairs to her flat seemed especially gruelling. Bridget couldn't decide if she was actually physically tired, or just mentally worn out after keeping her spirits artificially inflated throughout the coffee date. There was also the fact that she couldn't stop thinking about Mark, and what she might have done to offend him.

As she sunk heavily to her sofa in contemplation of dinner options (she was starting to feel hungry, but had no inclination towards cooking), her mobile, still tucked away in her handbag across the room, began to wail with an incoming call. With a groan she got to her feet again and dug the phone out just as it stopped ringing.

The display told her it had been Daniel. She rang him back.

"Bridge," he said. "How are you?"

"Shattered."

"Oh?" he asked; his tone in that one syllable spoke of his intense curiosity.

"Yes. Just got in."

"Coffee with Greg," stated Daniel.

She was stunned. "How on earth did you know that?"

"He came to see me before he asked. Didn't want to step on my toes." Daniel chuckled to himself. "Was surprised he had the backbone to go directly to you. Hope you didn't brutally savage the poor bastard."

She felt an intense and sudden spurt of annoyance. Greg was a nice guy; why would Daniel assume she'd savage him? Daniel was always so rough and bossy around Greg—granted, Daniel _was_ his boss, but… this went beyond the pale. "We had a very nice time, actually," she said archly. "He's very sweet and quite a gentleman."

"Oh, really?" drawled Daniel. "Going to see him again?"

"He did ask."

"Jones!" Now he seemed scandalised. "You're not _really_ entertaining the thought of seeing him again, are you?"

"I might," she said haughtily. "Why not?"

"Office flings are a bad idea."

The undoubtedly intentional irony of his statement made her laugh. "Well, it's not like I've had any other offers," she said.

"Bridge, we've only been legally separated since Monday."

She didn't respond because she didn't know what to say. Confiding in her soon-to-officially-be-ex-husband that she was interested in his ex-best-friend made for awkward conversation. "I was just… well. Disappointed that another lead didn't pan out."

"Are you talking about investigative journalism, or a man?"

"And how many girls have you had since Monday?" she asked, trying to deflect the conversation.

"None, I'll have you know," he said, then pressed on: "Which man?"

…

"Goodnight, Daniel," said Bridget with an obvious smile in her voice. "See you tomorrow."

With that the connection went dead, and as he disconnected his own phone, Daniel's smile was bittersweet. She had more or less confirmed the suspicions he'd had, at least to the extent that she had an interest in someone new. All evidence seemed to point to one man in particular, someone with whom he had once been close; someone with whom he might again be friendly thanks to her. Someone who clearly had interest in her.

It would be somehow fitting if things worked out between his former best friend and his future ex-wife. Daniel suspected, however, that Mark would never make a move without encouragement. _Swift kick in the arse, more like_, thought Daniel.

"Might as well get two birds with one stone—maybe even three," he muttered to himself as he dialled his phone again.

It rang four times and was nearly into the fifth before his call was answered: "Hello, Cleaver."

"Darce." It was odd to hear Mark's voice minus the animosity and anger it had once had. However, there was a strangely rough quality to his voice too. "Have I got you at a bad time?"

"No, it's fine… I appear to have dozed off. Sorry."

That explained the oddness in Mark's voice, the delay in answering. Daniel said, "I wanted to know if you were free."

"Free? What for?" Pause. "What's the time?"

"Barely eight."

"Eight?" he asked. "I've got court in the morning."

"Come on; you're not a geezer yet. It's barely just past supper."

Mark chuckled. "I've been feeling a little run down this week."

"Probably just overworked. Which is a great segue into why I'm calling. Meet me for a drink."

Mark didn't respond immediately, then asked suspiciously, "Why?"

"Why not?" Daniel said. "Come on. For old times' sake."

Another pause, then with resignation, Mark said, "The Savoy, I suppose."

"Actually, no. I was thinking the Mews."

A quick exhale. "Fine," he said quietly. "Be there within the hour."

Daniel arrived first to the cocktail bar at the Mews of Mayfair, with its sleek ambience and classic décor. He ordered himself a dirty martini and an Oban for Mark, because there were three certainties in life: death, taxes, and that Mark Darcy would order a single malt scotch. Amidst scowls undoubtedly for his selfishness in claiming the expansive leather sofa, he sank into it with an explanatory nod of the head towards his second drink. He set down Mark's tumbler, then took a small taste of his own. Perfect, as usual.

As usual, however, Mark was punctual within his self-assigned deadline. For a few seconds he didn't see Daniel, and the latter observed the former unnoticed. Mark looked as ragged as he'd sounded. His hair was not nearly as immaculate as usual, his trousers were minus their crease, and he had clearly knotted his tie again in haste. His eye caught Daniel's and he took the other end of the sofa.

"For you," said Daniel, tipping his head towards the drink on the table. He half expected Mark to make a smart-arse remark about assuming what he'd want, but he did not.

"What's the occasion?" Mark asked, lifting the tumbler to his lips.

"Two-fold, really," said Daniel. "First of all, since I don't think I have ever formally or officially done so: I wanted to apologise for… what happened. I could offer explanations, but at this point—"

"There's little point in explanations," said Mark. "To say my pride was wounded would be an understatement, but after much deliberation, ultimately—I think you may have done me the greatest favour you could have done. So." He raised the glass in a sort of toast. "Apology accepted."

Daniel didn't know how much he'd needed to hear the words until he did, and he grinned and touched the rim of his martini glass to Mark's tumbler before taking a drink.

"Secondly," Daniel continued, "whatever it was that you said to Bridget…" Daniel paused momentarily, watching Mark for a reaction; it was nearly imperceptible, but there was one, a slight tensing of the jaw. "…that convinced her to accept the settlement offer, thank you for that." He lifted his glass again and sipped. "She can be very stubborn, and I appreciate it."

"I only told her that it would keep things from dragging out," said Mark. "I'm just glad she saw the light. It'll help her move on more quickly."

Daniel took this as the opening he needed. He waited until Mark had his drink to his lips before saying, "Speaking of moving on, do you know? She had a date tonight."

This elicited the exact response he was expecting from a man who would never directly admit his interest: Mark coughed and sputtered a bit before touching the cloth table napkin to his mouth. "Sorry," he said, then managed an attempt at indifference in asking, "Is that right?"

"Mm, yes, one of the fellows in Marketing," he said. "Spoke to her before you got here. Apparently having a very nice time."

Mark did not say anything else, at least not immediately. Daniel observed that the colour in his face was reddening slightly, noticeable even with the reduced lighting in the bar, as Mark finished off the last of his drink. He set down the empty. "I'll need another one," he said quietly; then, almost as if he'd surprised himself by speaking aloud, he said, looking directly to Daniel, "And you?"

"Yes, but I'll buy," Daniel said, rising to his feet before Mark had a chance to do so. "I asked you here, after all."

Daniel returned to the bar, ordered a repeat of what he'd gotten earlier, then went back to the table. Mark had launched himself into his own little world, snapping out of it only when the second scotch was placed on the table before him.

"Thank you," he muttered, picking up the tumbler and knocking it back all at once, before rising to go to the bar for a third. Daniel was stunned; Mark had never been a rapid-fire drinker. Daniel tried not to let his surprise show though, and casually leaned back with his own drink, sipping almost daintily, as Mark returned. Daniel allowed him another swallow, allowed him to set the glass down, before speaking again.

"You know… I know," Daniel said with just the right amount of intrigue dripping from his voice.

"What?" he demanded. "What do you mean?"

"I mean Bridget, you daft cow," said Daniel. "I _know_."

…

Mark Darcy felt a rush of what felt like panic. What exactly was it that Daniel knew? Thoughts flitted fast as lightning despite his alcohol-addled mind—

He wondered if this was the real reason Daniel had asked him for drinks tonight, buttering him up with an apology—a sincere one? Possibly, but also possibly an excuse to drop this bombshell on him, to lull him into a false sense of security. The fact that Mark had had more than a passing interest in Bridget must have been so transparent, and she was at her most vulnerable…

After luring him here under false pretences, now Daniel seemed to be doing his best to torture him, to warn him to stay away, to let her find her own way in her quest for a new romance. That anything he'd noticed from her that might have looked like reciprocated interest from her was just gratitude for what he'd done for her, that she did not want him in that way—which would seal his own fears on the subject, to which he had arrived after much internal debate.

Maybe, just maybe, she had asked Daniel to speak to Mark on her behalf about the date to let him down easy. She was too kind to want to hurt him, and she and Daniel were still close, would likely always be close.

Mark met Daniel's gaze. He was, in all honesty, at a loss for words, and said the only thing he could think to say: "Sorry."

The reaction this elicited was one that took Mark by surprise. "Sorry?" he asked, incredulity in his tone. "The only thing you should be sorry for is letting another chap swoop in and snap her up."

"_What?_"

This came out of his mouth too quickly, too loudly for his liking, and without conscious thought he looked around to see if it had garnered undue attention. It had not. When he looked back to Daniel, he found the man was smirking, then slapped his knee and laughed. Actually slapped his knee.

"You are priceless, Darcy," he said. "You'd've thought I was saying I'd thrown a kitten from a moving vehicle, with your expression and your turning ash white…"

"What _are_ you saying?" asked Mark brusquely. "That I have your blessing to…"

"I suppose if you want to call it that, yes," said Daniel, finishing his second drink at last, then setting the martini glass down. "Greg—that's the Marketing fellow—is a bit of a dolt. Pleasant enough, but no backbone, and dumb as a brick." Daniel chuckled to himself. "She'll probably keep seeing the wanker just to spite me for having opined so. She can do better than that."

"And I'm better than that?"

"_Fuck_ yes," said Daniel. He leaned back. "She's a smart girl—pardon me, _woman_—" This he did in a pitch-perfect imitation of her voice, which made Mark smile. "—and she can obviously get by on her own, very independent in mind and spirit, but she… she can be so unsure of herself, and she feels things more… _acutely_ than other women do. She needs someone solid, reliable and rational to keep her grounded." _Reassured, too_, thought Mark. Daniel reached for his cigarettes, but muttered a curse under his breath when he remembered he could not actually smoke in the bar. "And God knows you could use someone with a bit of spirit and flight of fancy—I think she'd do you a world of good that way." He chuckled. "Bloody yin and yang."

Mark picked up his scotch again and stared into the shallow amber for many moments, then drank the last of it. "As you can see," he said thoughtfully, setting down the empty glass, "I'm at a bit of a loss."

"Not what you were expecting," he said. "I know."

"The opposite of what I was expecting, actually." He smiled.

"I'm not that much of a jackass," he said. "In all seriousness, with everything that's gone down in the last few weeks, she is a bit, well…"

"Vulnerable," Mark supplied.

"Yes," said Daniel. "Though she's probably kick us both for thinking it. Even still, I know you well enough to know you wouldn't take advantage of that. You wouldn't hurt her." He reached for his cigarettes again, muttered a curse under his breath again. "This isn't completely altruistic, you know. Quite frankly, if you and she can get together and make each other happy, it'll be like a circle's closed. I'll feel like my sins are forgiven at last; committed against you, committed against her."

Mark leaned back into the sofa, suddenly wishing he hadn't had quite so much to drink, so quickly. If he hadn't he might have called her immediately, date be damned. There was also the matter of not wanting to seem desperate; he did not want to throw himself at her feet. He pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes.

"I'm dying for a smoke," came Daniel's voice. "If you're done—"

"Oh, I'm done," said Mark, not looking up.

"Right. I'll settle the bill. If you want to join me outside…"

The air would do him good. "Sure."

The cool night air was bracing and refreshing. It brought him a little out of his haze, but he was nonetheless feeling his choice in taking a taxi was a wise one. He made sure to stand upwind of Daniel, who had wasted no time pulling out a cigarette to smoke, in Mark's opinion, with a little too much glee.

That's when it occurred to him: it was more than the date (and the impending possibility of another one) that was prompting Daniel to come to him with this now. That was the catalyst, but ultimately not the underlying reason. "Daniel," he said quietly, "what else did she say to you? Dating someone else is not usually grounds to suggest a man make his move on a woman."

"She mentioned she might go out with this Greg again," Daniel returned, exhaling slowly. "Because she was, and I quote, 'disappointed that another lead didn't pan out'."

"So you're saying…" Mark said tentatively.

"Do I have to spell it out?" Daniel asked, flicking ash away. "Yes, Mark. She was hoping you'd ask her out to dinner. I'm sure of it."

"I did ask her out to dinner. In fact, we went out to dinner. The day you both met with Jason." He remembered that day with sadness; the baby-centred display, the breakdown in tears, his resolution in bringing her home… "But it was just as friends."

Daniel raised his brow, a show of disbelief. "You can try to fool yourself," he said, "but you can't fool me."

Mark shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "I told myself to give her time and distance," he admitted.

"And I'm telling you, bollocks to that," said Daniel, throwing down the end and stepping on it before picking it up to dispose of it properly. He then met Mark's gaze. "Call her tomorrow. Or come and see her at the office. I don't care. Just… don't let the opportunity go."

Mark felt a great exhaustion wash over him. "Okay," he said, almost as if in surrender. "Okay. I will."

"Crikey," said Daniel. "Let's find a taxi. You look like utter crap."

Despite the insult, Mark was compelled to smile. Tomorrow was another day; a brighter one ending in Bridget's company, he hoped.

…

_Fri, 11 Aug_

Bloody alarm clock. Time to get up.

It wasn't until she had been halfway through putting on her makeup that she realised how normal being back at the flat seemed, being on her own. She also felt a pang of sadness, because this day marked the ninth day since she'd had dinner with Mark Darcy, and he hadn't called her or contacted her at all.

_Well, fuck it_, she thought, suddenly feeling a bit brave. _I'll call him. Am modern woman and these are modern times._ Then she looked at the clock. It was not even eight in the morning yet. _Hm. Maybe later._

The first few times she'd done the walk across the bridge and to work, it had been a little tiring, just because she'd gotten out of the habit of doing so; she'd been getting a lift in with Daniel. After she left and returned to her flat, Daniel had offered to still take her in with him, but she'd declined. She was perfectly happy to reclaim her old routine, and it wasn't as if what had happened had physically incapacitated her.

It was a beautiful morning, after all. She smiled, slipped her sunglasses on, and left the building.

Once she got to work, she became so engrossed in a project that was due by noon that she completely lost track of time. As she ate her early lunch of ordered-in sandwich and coffee, she told herself with confidence that she'd just ring him after she'd turned it in.

That was her plan, anyway, until Daniel's office door opened with a bang just as she popped in the last bite of sandwich. He looked angry, angrier than she'd ever seen him. In his hand he held a purple envelope. "Bridget!" he said, his brows furrowed, fury evident in his posture and tone. "Get in here, right now. We have to talk."

She knew that shade of purple, and she smiled.

…

It was no surprise that Mark Darcy awoke with a pounding headache, given the three shots of very high quality scotch he'd scoffed the night before. He soldiered on, however, taking paracetamol and drinking plenty of liquids (primarily of the caffeinated variety) in order to make it to the office.

Unfortunately, the pills and the coffee had no discernible effect, and it was only with concentrated effort that he made it through his morning schedule. Rebecca commented that he looked a little under the weather. He did not want to admit to work-week drinking, so he just told her he'd had a bout of insomnia the night before.

It was just a little after noon and Mark was just considering giving up and calling it a day when there was a knock on his door. Mark beckoned them enter, and he was pleased to see it was a grinning Jason. "Your PA was gone."

"She went for lunch. Please, come in."

Jason looked concerned. "You feeling okay?"

Mark nodded, although it was a bald-faced lie. "A bit of a headache. Was going to wait for Rebecca to come back before leaving. What brings you here?"

Jason began to chuckle again. "I've just had a call," he said, "that is going to—it's one for the books. Daniel rang me in a froth about what Bridget did. Oh God, that woman's unbelievable."

Mark was concerned and intrigued. "Should you be telling me?"

"He told me it was okay to tell you."

"Okay. What did she do?"

"Well, as you know, she accepted the lump sum divorce settlement," said Jason, still laughing, "then turned around and donated it to charity." Jason went on to describe the charity—committed towards gender equality in Africa—but Mark did not hear it. No wonder she had apparently given in so easily; she had planned this from that very moment, and now the fleeting look of naughtiness, when he'd thought he'd persuaded her, made complete sense. Daniel must have been as aggravated at her actions as he felt right now, at being so easily fooled at what had appeared to be such easy compliance…

…and yet, he admired her for her conviction. In fact, it made him love her more.

"After all," Jason went on with that same giant grin on his face, "there was no stipulation in the agreement that dictated what she could or couldn't do with the money." He paused, possibly waiting for a response from Mark, but none was forthcoming. "She's a spitfire, that one," Jason went on. "A real live wire. You can bet in future I'll bear this in mind in drafting separation agreements, not that many settlement arguments are about _not_ wanting the money."

"Yes," said Mark at last, making himself smile. All he could think about was Daniel's words from the night before. She wasn't going to stay single for long. What man in his right mind wouldn't be attracted to a woman like that? "You know, I think I won't wait for Rebecca to come back, after all," he said, rubbing his temples.

"You're sure you're all right?"

"Went out with Daniel for a drink last night."

"Ah," said Jason. "I understand. Well, I won't keep you, but I had to stop by. Hope you feel better."

"I'm sure it'll be all right. Just need to lie down until the head improves."

"You'll be all right to drive home?"

He nodded. "I'll be fine."

Mark packed up his attaché, wrote a note for Rebecca letting him know he was going home, then walked with Jason out into the hall; they parted when Jason turned to go back towards his office and Mark went for the door and for his car.

He barely remembered the trip home; before he knew it he was in his drive. _Thank goodness for autopilot_, he thought, dragging himself into the house. He went directly to his bedroom and into the shower, hoping the hot water and the steam would help. It did, but only marginally.

He closed the curtains and slipped into his bed; the linens felt especially welcoming, though as he slipped into slumber he could think only that he had intended on ringing Bridget during lunch. His last thought before succumbing to sleep was, _I'll just do after…_

…

Unbelievable. And there was nothing Daniel could do about it. He stared down at the purple envelope as if he might be able to set it alight with his eyes alone.

"Tell me what the meaning of this is," he had demanded as he'd waved the envelope in front of her all-too-smug face.

"That? Looks like a thank-you letter for making a rather sizeable donation."

"I know what it bloody _is_, Bridget," he'd said between clenched teeth. "It just happens to be almost the exact amount your settlement was in."

"What an _amazing_ coincidence."

"Bridget!" he'd shouted. "That was supposed to be for you. To take care of _you_."

"Daniel," she'd replied, turning stone serious. "You can't tell me what to do with the money you gave me. I kept a little, sure. I'm not a complete idiot."

"Enough to buy almost a whole pizza dinner," he'd pointed out sardonically.

"Enough to buy you this." She'd handed him a carrier bag. He'd peeked in then began laughing, just as he laughed again now to think of it.

Inside the bag had been a novelty tee-shirt bearing a drawing of a red sports car and the phrase "Back on the market", as well as a bottle of trendy cologne. It had very handily taken the wind from his fury. It was impossible to remain angry with her.

"I'll be fine," she'd said with a wink, "so long as you don't sack me."

"You're mental," he'd said.

"Oh, and before I forget, this," she'd then said, reaching to slip off the ring he'd given her, his grandmother's ring, which he'd then steadfastly refused to accept.

"Even if I get married again, which seems highly unlikely," he'd told her, "I wouldn't want any other woman to have it. Besides, my mum said not to take it back." This had stunned her into silence.

He'd then set the bag down, then had taken her in his arms for a hug. "God. Wait until Mark hears about this donation."

She'd pulled back abruptly. "What? Did you talk to him?"

"Not yet," he'd said to her, "but he'll not appreciate being fooled any more than I was."

That had quieted her; it spoke volumes, proving to him she did care about Mark. He chuckled quietly to himself again thinking of how she'd looked when she'd left his office, chastened, slightly bewildered, yet eager.

…

Even worse than getting a scolding phone call was not getting one at all.

All afternoon as Bridget tried to focus on her work she operated under threat of her phone ringing, of Mark telling her off for not keeping her money. Frankly, she was up for defending herself, but the fact that he did even not call made her anxious.

_Maybe I've really mucked it up_, she thought as the hours wore on. _Maybe I should just call him. Right. Like I said I would. I'll call._

She dialled him on her mobile. He didn't answer; she didn't leave a message. After a few minutes, she tried again. It rang and rang, and she disconnected again without leaving a message. She found it highly unlikely that he didn't have his mobile fully charged, the ringer enabled, and in his pocket wherever he went. So that meant…

_He's avoiding my calls. Oh God. He's so annoyed he doesn't even want to speak with me._

"Bridge? What's the matter?" Daniel.

"Nothing," she said quickly.

"Maybe you should go home. I'm sure between the two of us, you've had a bit of a rough day." He glanced to the clock. She realised it was time to go home.

She rose. "If you must know, Mark has not in fact called to read me the riot act."

Daniel's brows rose. "That does surprise me. Oh, I know. Maybe he's too angry to call. Simmering, _seething_ with fury."

She pursed her lips, not appreciating that he was validating her fears. "Maybe he just admires that I stood up for myself."

Daniel cocked a brow. "How likely do you think that is, Bridge?"

"I'll just go over there," she said in defiance.

"You could just call—oh. You tried that already, didn't you?"

She didn't have to speak; her blush said it all. "Where does he have an office again?"

"Where we went to see Jason. I'll take you if you want. He works late quite often."

"I can find my own way there."

"Maybe you should call there first."

She was already gathering up her things and heading for the door.

She found a taxi straightaway, near-miraculous for late afternoon Friday, and it brought her right over to Inns of Court. She had a little trouble finding his office, and when she did—she found an attractive, slender woman there.

"Oh," Bridget said. "I was looking for Mark. Mark Darcy." As if there might be more than one Mark in Mark Darcy's office.

"He's gone home," she said. "Left hours ago."

She should have heeded Daniel's parting comment. "Oh," she said again in defeat. "Maybe I could…" She trailed off when it occurred to her she didn't know where he lived. "Sorry. You're obviously leaving."

"It's all right," she said brightly. "Have we met before?"

"I don't think so. I'm Bridget."

"Oh, Bridget!" said the woman. "I'm Rebecca. Mark's PA. Mark talks about you all the time."

Bridget was stunned. "Does he?"

"Sure," said Rebecca. "Why don't I take you to his house? I was going to drop by with some files he forgot, but you can take them in. It's always a nightmare parking on his street on Friday night."

"That sounds great. Thanks."

The knot of fire building in her stomach grew as they wound through the streets of London. As the car rolled to pause at the bottom of a drive in which was parked a silver sedan she knew all too well, Bridget realised exactly how well-off he was (thinking of her mother so many months ago); they were in the very posh Holland Park neighbourhood. "He'll know what to do with these." She smiled. "Have a nice evening."

_It'll be a great evening_, she thought morosely as she considered the sharp words that likely awaited her.

Bridget strode confidently to the front door and rapped; she turned for a moment when she Rebecca's little car sped away. No one answered, which didn't bode well; what if he'd gone out of town? She knocked again with a little more force. Still no answer. "I hope you're home," she said to herself. "Or I'm stranded in Holland Park, and it'll be getting dark soon."

She spotted the doorbell. It was possible, she supposed, that if he were home, he could be in a remote part of the house, way up on the top floor of that wedding cake house, and couldn't hear a knock. She pressed the bell for several seconds, then tensely waited.

Still nothing.

She went to reach for the bell again when she heard a commotion from within. The door swung open. What greeted her there took her aback.

…

When Mark heard the first knock through the haze of his slumber, he thought he was dreaming. The second, harder knock made him realise he was not. He lifted his head only to come to the very rapid conclusion that what he had experienced before was much more than a hangover headache. He was woozy even before he sat upright.

It took a concerted effort to make it to the door to put on his robe when the bell went off. _Heaven help me get down the stairs without killing myself_, he thought. Heavy were his feet on the stairs, which took all of his focus. When he got to the bottom he pulled open the door. He was not at all expecting to see who he saw. Rebecca, maybe.

Not Bridget.

"Oh my God!" she said, covering her mouth with her hand in her shock. "Are you all right?"

"A little under the weather," he said, shivering; it seemed so cold in the house, but it was an August night, so that couldn't be.

"A little?" she asked, pushing past him and into the house, closing the door behind herself. "You're as white as a sheet and you're a mess." As if by instinct, she placed her hand on his forehead. "Jesus. You're burning up. Have you had anything?"

"Anything?" he parroted.

"For the fever."

He struggled to recall when he'd taken the paracetamol. It was—"Before work."

"Oh, God. Come on." She set down the folder she'd brought in then closed and locked the door. "Show me where your loo is, with your medicines."

"Up there."

She looked up the staircase, then back to him. "Are you going to be able to get up there?" She chuckled, then added, "I can't carry you."

He nodded, though wasn't sure he could. He'd have to, though.

Slowly but surely they made progress up the stairs. His head felt like it was floating over a disobedient body. She followed him directly into his room and it was only when he shed his robe—and her gasp of surprise—that he remembered he had nothing on underneath. Quickly he climbed into bed, pulled the duvet up and over him, then rested himself on the pillow.

It was obvious by the sound of pill bottles rustling that she had found the toilet. "Okay," she said, still sounding a bit flustered, "more pills coming right up." Through his heavy lids he saw her peek out before returning into the bedroom proper. She had a glass of water and two pills and as she sat down, she handed them to him. "Here. Sit up. Take these."

He did as directed, then fell back onto the pillow and closed his eyes. "Thank you," he said. "Sorry about before. I didn't mean to flash you."

He felt tender fingertips along his brow, heard her chuckle quietly. "Let me get you a cool flannel for your face." The bed beside him lifted as she rose.

In the few minutes before she returned he tried to figure out what had happened to put him in this state. He had felt a bit run down for about a week, but had just assumed it was work-related fatigue with a side of stress in trying not to think about Bridget. Evidently it had been something more. Today, whatever he'd been fighting had taken hold.

"Here." The bed sank again as she sat beside him, then a rectangle of coolness was placed upon his forehead. It felt like heaven. "How long have you been like this?"

"Today," he said.

"Oh." Her fingers began combing his hair back away from his temples; to better fit the flannel on his face, or an act of tenderness or feeling on her part, he could not discern. It felt wonderful all the same. "I was wondering why I hadn't heard from you," she said gently.

"I'm sorry," he said, which came out more like a croak. "It wasn't you. Well it was, but it was more me. About you."

It made sense in his head, but must not have translated very well, because she began to chuckle. "You're feverish," she said. "You're babbling gibberish."

He tried to explain more but she just shushed him.

"Go to sleep," she admonished softly. "Hopefully by morning the fever will have broken."

It sounded like she was going to leave, and he really wanted her to stay. "Bridget," he said, feeling the tug of slumber again. "Don't go."

"I'm not going to," she said, placing her hand on the flannel once more. "Goodness. Warm already. Let me cool this off again." The flannel came up; the air hit his skin; and just before he fell asleep again he could have sworn she kissed him there, right there, on the forehead.

…

His skin was warm to the touch, even still, as she placed her lips in a tender, lingering kiss in the centre of his forehead. The urge had taken over, a natural thing to do at the bedside of an ill friend, but as she drew away she could not deny he meant more to her than that.

She was going to care for him as he had done for her.

Since arriving and herding him back to his bed, Bridget had gone into a sort of automaton mode, getting fever reducers, a cool flannel, making sure he was comfortable… yet all she could think of was that moment when he'd stripped off his robe, revealing—

_You have a task at hand_, she thought. _Cool down the flannel again. _She had to stop thinking about the lean cords in his back, the perfect, pert bottom…

Her thoughts as she rinsed then wrung out the flannel again went back to New Year's day eight months ago, at her mother's, when she'd seen him first from behind. How the front of that jumper had killed any desirous thoughts she had begun to form. How the reveal of what was beneath those trousers had revived them quite thoroughly.

"Stop it," she muttered aloud. "He isn't well."

She went back into the bedroom, flannel in hand, and tiptoed towards the bed. He was deeply sleeping again. Gingerly she sat then placed the cool cloth across his forehead. He did not move. She watched carefully to reassure herself that he was in fact breathing, brushing tiny, damp waves of hair away from his forehead again.

If she was going to stay over—and she'd said she would—it occurred to her that she should change out of the clothes she was wearing into something else lest her clothing become utterly rumpled overnight. She rose from the bed and decided she'd have to take a look through his bureaus for anything she could co-opt as a nightshirt.

The first drawer she tugged open revealed perfect lines of socks; the second, boxers. All of them were ordered and separated by colour. She almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. The next row down bore fruit; plain white tee shirts of for wearing under his dress shirts, undoubtedly. Peeks into the rest of the drawers told her she'd have to settle for one of those white ones; she'd rather hoped to find a drawer of old rock concert shirts just waiting to surprise her, but it was not to be. She held one up and let it unfurl; the shirt would handily come down nearly to her knees. It would do.

She debated changing in the toilet, but he was dead asleep anyway so she saw no harm in shimmying out of her skirt, taking off her blouse, peeling off her thigh-high stockings right there. She then pulled the tee on over her head. The tee shirt was of thick and luxurious cotton, definitely high end and very comfy. She went around to the other side of the bed; there was a two-seat couch in the room—_A couch in the bedroom! Imagine!_ she marvelled in a mental voice not unlike her mother's—but it was not in a spot convenient for observing someone convalescing in the bed. The chair that was there, a high-backed, upright thing, did not at all seem comfortable for long-term sitting. So the other side of the bed it would be. He wouldn't mind, she reasoned. He was sleeping. _And it's a fucking huge bed._

She climbed in next to him; the night was too warm (and so was he, to be perfectly honest, radiating that heat beyond the bounds of all sense) so she opted to stay above the duvet. She told herself she was going to keep a bedside vigil, but the truth of it was that within very short order she had rested her cheek upon her folded elbow on the pillow, closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, too.


	11. Chapter 11

**It's a Nice Day to Start Again**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 78,546  
Chapters: 11 + epilogue  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.  
BTW: There's a rather extensive reference in this chapter to the contents of a popular, recent book. Don't worry. I don't spoil anything about the storyline. Having said that, it's not necessary to have read the book to understand its role in the story.

* * *

Chapter 11.

_Sat, 12 Aug_

Mark woke abruptly, bathed in sweat and no longer shivering with chill; he knew instantly that his fever had broken. It was dark and he had no idea what time of day it was, so he looked for his bedside clock. It read 03.57. Must have been the middle of the night. He pushed off the duvet and took in a breath, allowing the air of the room to cool him down.

As he lay there, he recalled a most interesting dream he'd had. Bridget had been here in his bedroom; she was undressing, and had propped each foot respectively up onto the chair in order to pull down her stockings. He had watched without a word or a movement, mesmerised by her unconscious sensuality.

The bed seemed to shift beside him. He thought he had to still be dreaming, because he turned to see that Bridget herself appeared to be on the opposite side of the bed, beyond where he'd pushed off his duvet. She was on her stomach and dressed in white, which very nearly glowed in the dimness of the room, and unless he was very much mistaken the garment she wore had ridden up to reveal a healthy portion of her hip and backside as well as the lacy edge of her pants. He reached forward; it felt to him like nothing more than his bed linens. He let his hand drop where it was.

_Still dreaming_, he thought, his eyes following the lines of her curves as he drifted back to sleep.

When he woke again the sun was shining brightly into the room. He blinked and sat up, pushing aside the linen sheet that still covered him then remembered his hallucinatory dream and looked quickly to the side. The bed was in fact empty. He wasn't sure if he felt relieved or sad.

He was contemplating getting up to use the loo when the door burst open. He barely had time to register who it was that bore the tray (undoubtedly, some kind of breakfast) before reaching for and draping the sheet across his lap again.

"Oh my God," said Bridget, the tray wobbling in her hand. "I—should have knocked, but I assumed you were still sleeping."

She was dressed in the same blouse and skirt from the previous night, so it seemed logical to assume that at least part of his memories were actually remembrances and not fever-dreams. "Don't apologise," he said. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you were actually here."

She set the tray down on the mattress at the foot of the bed before reluctantly meeting his gaze; the tray bore orange juice and a bowl of what looked like oatmeal. Her face was ablaze with a blush. "Your kitchen was impossible to navigate," she said, "and I wasn't sure what you might be able to tolerate. I hope this will be all right."

"It'll be fine," he said. He glanced to the tray. Reaching for it would reveal all again. "Um. Will you pass me my robe?"

"Sure." She blushed again—or was blushing still—as she reached for where it hung on the hook then handed it to him. "You seem to be feeling better," she said, turning to look away as he rose to slip on the robe.

"Much better, thank you," he said as he sat again on the bed, then pulled the sheets and duvet over his lap. "Still a little dizzy and weak."

"You should probably have some more fever reducer. Here, let me." He sat against the headboard and she placed the tray over his lap. She then sat in the wingback chair nearest the bed.

"Thanks. I will, with some food. I haven't really eaten anything… since yesterday breakfast, come to think." He took a long swallow of the orange juice. It felt cool and refreshing. Quietly she brought another pair of pills as he dug his spoon into the oatmeal; it was the instant variety that he often stocked for a quick, hot breakfast, and she'd dolloped some strawberry jam on top. "Thank you. I hope you've had something to eat."

"I have, thanks," she said; just as he was thinking it all seemed to have gone so rigid and formal between them—not terribly surprising as he had just put her in a very awkward position—she offered a smile at last. "Though I could kill for a cup of coffee. Couldn't find the cafetière."

"I think I could probably manage the strength to go to the kitchen and make some when I'm finished here." Bite by bite he tried to make his way through the bowl of oatmeal, but found that despite rationally knowing he hadn't eaten since the previous morning, he could not finish it. With a sense of defeat he set the spoon down.

"Maybe you could just tell me where the cafetière is," she said as he leaned back against the headboard. "And the coffee."

"Um. They're in the third pantry door to the left of the stove. No. The fourth."

"You don't sound very sure," she said.

"Well… you've seen the kitchen," he said.

She chuckled again. "Oh, by the way, I hope you don't mind, but I had a shower this morning." The image of her undressed, beneath the streaming water, flashed unbidden through his mind. "And last night I borrowed a shirt but had to do a bit of snooping to find it."

He drew his brows together. She was wearing the same clothes he'd see her wearing yesterday. "What do you—"

That was when he saw them, draped over one of the chair's arms: the translucent, pale tan hosiery. Her stockings. The ones he thought he'd dreamt she'd removed, had thought so tantalisingly alluring as she had…

"Have your paracetamol," she chided gently. "You're looking peaked." He did as she suggested. "Anyway, I wanted something to sleep in so I dug for a tee shirt. White enough to read by in the dark. I put it in the laundry basket."

He choked a bit on the orange juice. "Oh," he said rather stupidly. His inner voice could only shout at him, _You didn't dream that either. The curves, the pants—and what on earth did you rest your hand on?_

"I can take the tray back downstairs," she said. "If you're done."

"Sure," he said, still feeling in a daze. He furrowed his brow, suddenly curious. "Bridget, what brought you here last night in the first place, anyway?"

…

"Oh, um."

Bridget's mind raced back, of all things, to seeing his bare arse last night; to another flash of intimate skin this morning, and in between, waking to find his hand atop her own backside, which was certainly large enough to be a comfortable resting place for his hand—

She blurted, "I was bringing some papers in for you, from Rebecca."

"Oh," he asked. He seemed to accept this, and she felt a little relieved, but then he asked in a tone that seemed eerily like his normal, scrutinising, fully cognisant self, "Wait, why wouldn't she have just dropped them off herself? Come to think of it, what brought you to my office?"

"I—" she said, then paused; 'I was wondering why you didn't shout at me for the massive charity donation' did not seem a reasonable thing to say, given the circumstances. "I was concerned when I hadn't heard from you. I tried calling but you didn't answer." After a pause, she decided to add, "I was wondering if you were angry with me, or if I'd offended you in some way or something."

"Oh, Bridget, of course I'm not, and of course you haven't," he said, sounding as tired as if he had not slept at all. "I've just been very busy—big case coming up—and I've been feeling so run down for days, the lead-in to whatever this is, no doubt. Plus I wanted to give you some space."

"Space for what?" she asked, too quickly.

"To recover from everything you've gone through," he said. He then smiled wanly. "If you make that coffee, I'll have some. Black."

"Sure, sure," she said, trying not to hear the words as an abrupt dismissal; he was unwell, after all. "I can bring the papers too. Maybe they're important."

"Yes, you'd better. And Bridget," he said. "If you don't mind… knock first."

She laughed out loud, feeling her face flush again. "I will."

She took the tray in hand then made the trip back down to his kitchen. If nothing else, she told herself, her time spent in his house was a good workout; his bedroom was on the second floor, and the kitchen was below the first floor level. With little effort she found the cafetière and the coffee, and got a pot brewing; with a smirk she thought about his directions to find them, because they had been in the third door to the left of the stove, after all.

Rather than fuss about with the tray again, she brought the two mugs, and tucked the folder from Rebecca under her arm. She couldn't really knock, so she called, "Is it safe to come in?"

"Yes."

She hadn't pulled the door closed all the way, so she was able to push it open with her foot. When she walked through, she nearly began laughing. He was sitting in bed, resting against the headboard, but was now wearing pyjamas that clearly were rarely ever used; they looked brand new and still had creases from being folded. His hair was also damp.

"Are you feverish again?" she asked, setting down the mugs. She sat beside him, then reached and pressed her hand to his forehead. A bit warm, but not feverish.

"No, I took a quick shower," he explained. "Feel much improved."

"Oh, good," she said; she could still smell the soap he'd used. "You look it, though I wouldn't recommend anything but rest and relaxation." She remembered the folder. "I'm not really even sure why I brought _work_ up to you. Tell you what. I'll read the first few lines and you can tell me whether or not it's important."

"That sounds fair," he said.

Within two sentences of her beginning to read, he deemed the folder 'not important'—at least not important enough to be concerned while convalescing in bed—so she placed the papers back in the folder and set it down on his bureau. "Well, that's that then," she said, turning to offer him another smile. "Was there anything more you wanted? Maybe soup in a bit?"

"I'd like to read—"

"Oh, I could leave."

"No, I don't want you to leave," he said. "What I was going to say was that I'd like to read but my eyes hurt a little… so I guess you could drag out the telly and watch something. I could at the very least listen."

She was touched that he wanted her to stay; it made her want to stay even more. "Were you reading something in particular? Maybe I could read it to you. I'm pretty good at reading. Aloud, I mean. I read to Constance all the time."

His smile was endearing. "I could tell from those two sentences that you're an ace reader. You're sure you had nothing else to do?"

"Mark, I'm usually not even awake by ten, let alone carrying out plans."

"What about the rest of the day?"

She went nearer to where he lay. "The rest of my day is open," she said, "especially for you, after what you did for me when I needed it."

It looked like he might say something more, but he didn't. "The book's in the drawer," he said, leaning his head to the side. "Nightstand."

The book that was in there nearly made her jump. _Fatherland_ by Robert Harris, with a not-very-reassuring cover image and an introductory passage about the triumph of Germany during the second World War. "No, absolutely not," she said. "This will make you want to off yourself."

"It's very interesting," he said. "It's a speculative history."

"No," she said again vehemently. "If I have to read it I won't be able to restrain my own murderous impulses. I have something better."

She left the room, went down to get her handbag (which she'd left in the foyer) and brought it back upstairs. She thought again of the exercise and all the stair climbing. "Here we are."

"What's that?"

"_One Day_."

"I can read the cover," he said wryly; he must have been feeling a bit better. "What's it about?"

"The same day, the same two people, over several years. I'm about halfway through, but I'll just begin from the beginning."

"Okay," he said with mock resignation.

With her coffee at her side, she took a seat beside him leaning up against the headboard. He turned to face her, which made her slightly nervous. She then started to read—and immediately wanted to hit herself hard on the forehead, because she'd completely forgotten that the book began with the two main characters in bed. Just as they were. The main difference though was that Emma and Dexter… they were physically entwined and not wearing clothes.

Bridget cleared her throat and continued.

…

"No. _No!_"

In the blink of an eye, Bridget threw the book across the room, where it hit the wall with a solid thump. Mark heard a sob escape her. At the turn of events in the book, he too found himself feeling unexpectedly emotional.

"I should have bloody read the _bloody_ Nazi book," she said, wiping under her eyes, then she turned to look at him with a sheepish smile. "Sorry."

She looked so sad, so emotional—but he didn't want to overstep his bounds. "Don't apologise," he said. She sat there, silent; her blue eyes were wide and glossy and in that instant he then threw caution to the wind and reached to pull her into a hug. "I didn't see that coming either." It was exactly what she needed, and she turned and clung to him. He held her tight, stroked her hair as she cried a little more.

"It's just a book, I know," she murmured. "But… things are supposed to turn out well in books, since they don't always in real life."

Instinct kicked in; he turned and placed a kiss on her temple, just on the hairline. She seemed to freeze for a moment, then pulled away slightly; he wondered if he had gone too far. When he saw her expression, her slightly parted lips, and saw the longing in her eyes, he knew he had not. He cupped her cheek in his hand, stroked his thumb to brush away residual tears, then leaned to kiss her tenderly on the lips.

_Sometimes they do_, he thought as he drew back. With the radiance of the smile she offered him, he wasn't entirely sure she hadn't read his mind.

"Perhaps it's a good time to break, anyway," he said gently, sitting back against the headboard, allowing her to retreat gracefully. She got to her feet, flattening down her skirt. "It's getting dark outside, and I'm actually feeling a little hungry."

"Well, that's a good sign," she said. "Not sure you want me cooking for you, though, unless you want a relapse."

He laughed low in his throat. "There's a very high probability that my housekeeper has left me something in the fridge," he said. "She seems to think I'm incapable of cooking for myself."

"What are you talking about?" she said. "I'd _love_ that!"

"Yeah," he admitted. "She's a great cook."

"Do you have the strength now to venture down, or shall I risk devastation in reheating it myself?"

He pushed himself to the edge of the bed then swung his legs over the edge. He then got to his feet. "I think I can make it down," he joked.

It was hardly necessary, but she insisted he take her elbow for the walk to the staircase. As they were about to descend, he could hear a mobile ringing. Her mobile. "Bloody hell, let me get that. Don't go down without me." She went back to his room, and he chuckled as he started the climb down; it wasn't as if he were that feeble. "Hi Shaz," he heard her say. "Oh… sorry, no. I forgot. I've got… other plans." Her voice got louder as she came out of the room. "Mark!" she exclaimed automatically to chastise him, forgetting she was on the phone. He turned to see she had flushed bright red, and that she was muttering under her breath. "Yes. I mean, no. It's not a… it's not that. So no, I'm not going to make it. Bye. _Bye._" She hung up.

"Am I keeping you from something?" he asked with a touch of playfulness.

"Oh, I'd made some tentative plans to go to The Electric with my friends, but…" She smiled. "Something else came up."

It was his turn to flush with embarrassment.

The housekeeper had left him a chicken pot pie, which required only about twenty minutes in the oven at gas mark four for a reheat. They had a little white wine with dinner; it had been long enough since the last dose of fever reducer that he didn't see any problem with it. Bridget had devoured her portion with great enthusiasm and much more quickly that he had, leaving her feeling a bit sheepish. "Soon as I'm done, we can get back to reading," he said, scooping up another forkful of flaky pastry and chicken gravy.

"No," she said definitively. "I'm furious and I refuse to read anymore."

"Fine," he said, then looked up at her. "I'll finish reading it then."

Her smile told him she was open to his idea.

By the time he got to the last page, she was in tears again; his own voice was quite unsteady and emotional. "Just beautiful," she said, "though if I ever met the author I'd probably shake him by the shoulders for doing this to me."

This made him chuckle. This turned into a yawn. He realised with a start that it was now after midnight.

"Shit, I should probably go," she said, seeing the time at just about the same instant.

"Nonsense," he said sternly. "It's too late for my comfort to let you go out all on your own."

She laughed lightly. "I go out on my own much later than this all the time."

"It's too late," he said again, "for my comfort."

"Mark," she said, "I can take care of myself."

This brought to mind Jason's news of the previous day. "Oh yes," Mark said in that same stern tone, "so I've heard." She screwed up her features querulously. "Your settlement… one which became a rather large gift to charity." She looked like she might unload on him in her own defence, but he continued speaking. "Very fiscally irresponsible; you might have paid off some bills, or even some or all of your mortgage. And I… I don't like at all that you misled me." Here, though, he smiled; he softened his tone as he continued. "But I can't think of another woman who wouldn't have gleefully taken the money and relished the profit made on such a short union."

Now she looked confused. "Are you shouting at me, or aren't you?"

He laughed aloud; she looked offended. "Yes," he said, still smiling.

"Mark—" she began, exasperation in her voice.

"Bridget, I'd like you to stay." At her expression of bewilderment, he added, "Who knows? I could yet relapse." He reached then for her hand, feeling emboldened, feeling the importance more than ever of not letting the moment pass, particularly after the book they'd read together. "I know it hasn't been long since everything changed so radically for you, and I don't expect anything from you, not even reciprocation, but…" He brought her left hand to his lips to kiss the knuckles, noticing for the first time they were bare and devoid of rings, then met her gaze again. "I care very much about you."

_As more than a friend_. She seemed to understand. "Oh," she said, tears filling her eyes. "Oh." She took her hand from his then leaned over to slip her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek tenderly. He returned the embrace. There was emotion in her voice when she spoke again, but also a touch of humour: "That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me that had the word 'reciprocation' in it."

It made him chuckle. She snuggled into him, resting against his shoulder, fingernails tracing lazy arcs on his pyjama top, knees tucked up against his hip. They sat there for so long in this peaceful state that he thought perhaps she'd dozed off, but she spoke again.

"About that reciprocation," she said softly. "You must have guessed by now that you do have that."

He felt a bloom of happiness wash over him, and he tightened his embrace for a moment. "You know, Daniel came to me with an olive branch, bought me drinks, offered an apology to mend our friendship—which I accepted, by the way—but I think he intentionally misled me to push me towards you."

"Oh? How?"

"He made up some story about you having a date Thursday."

"Oh, he wasn't making that up."

"_What?_" he asked in his alarm, feeling tendrils of envy thread their way through him; it startled her out of his embrace.

Her expression of barely suppressed amusement made it seem she was pleased to have garnered this reaction from him. "It was only a coffee after work with Greg from Marketing. Ugh. Nice enough, total boresville. Since I hadn't heard from you in over a week though…." She pursed her lips, then smiled fully; she was only teasing. He calmed considerably. "So Daniel actually said 'date'?"

"Mm-hmm. He intimated that you were on a date the same time we were having a drink together."

"Hmm," she said. "Not even. Does that mean we have his blessing?"

"He was trying to make me jealous," he said. "So I think it does."

"Hmm," she said again, resuming her place next to him. She went quiet again, laying her hand flat on his chest. "You're right, though. It's only been… not even three weeks."

Since the miscarriage. He knew, and he understood.

She continued, "I'm not…"

"Ready," he supplied. "I know."

"Yeah."

"It's all right," he said. "Like I said, I don't expect anything. Except maybe to sleep with you tonight… in my arms, I mean." He brushed her fringe from her forehead. "And maybe a kiss. That wouldn't go awry."

This made her smile. "Sure, but if I get your… whatever you have, I'm going to smother you while you sleep."

"Probably the horse is out of the gate on that one," he said.

"Oh, well," she said softly. "Nothing to be done about it, then."

"Mm," he agreed from deep in his throat, lowering his lips to her in another chaste kiss, then another; when she parted her lips to invite him further, he took that invitation and kissed her gently and thoroughly, eliciting lovely little sounds of happiness, of approval, of pleasure. Even as he knew that was as far as he was willing to go just yet, to be here with her now was more than he'd ever expected, and he delighted in every moment. He broke away then placed his lips on her temple again in a tender kiss as he held her close to him, catching his breath, calming his pulse. This was enough for him for now; the rest would come in time, and he could wait. After all, there was much more to her, to his fondness for her, than that.

When he slept that night, it was in utter contentment and peace.

…

_Sun, 13 Aug_

Bridget did not know what time it was when she woke, but despite the drawn blinds it was quite bright in the room. It was an utterly odd sensation to be lying in a bed, to have her limbs stretched out in the manner of a starfish, and not have her hands or feet hanging off of the edge.

_Wait_, she thought; _Something's missing. Some_one. She turned to find that she was indeed alone in the monstrously large bed, swathed in the duvet and sheets. She sat up to make two additional discoveries: it was half eight, and for all of her care on Friday night, she'd ended up wrinkling the hell out of her clothes anyway by sleeping in them last night.

Sleeping. With Mark. In the same bed, anyway. She smiled to think of how sweet, how tender he'd been in making his lovely confession to her. It had made telling him she felt the same way so much easier; having Daniel's approval took away any lingering guilt she might have felt. Her friends would tease her mercilessly—if Sharon's call from last night was any indication, anyway—though Bridget believed with the whole of her heart that they thought Mark was a decent man. She knew for certain that Magda thought the world of him. How odd it was that so many circumstances had kept them from meeting, but she was not going to dwell on that now. She felt like she was beginning a brand new journey, even if she was still toting a little baggage from the last one.

It was true that she was not ready yet to dive into physical intimacy; her body was still trying to find an even keel on which to sail through even the calmest waters, so to speak. She knew he wouldn't force the issue. She also knew that when she _was_ ready, nothing was going to keep her from taking good care of him.

"Now there's a look to be worried about."

It was Mark walking in on her decidedly impure thoughts about him, and she hoped her blush wasn't as bright as it felt. There was teasing in his voice, though, which made her think he was oblivious to her train of thought. "Morning," she said with a drowsy smile. "Is that coffee?"

"Coffee and a little breakfast," he said. "Obviously I was feeling up to the task, and you were so kind to do so yesterday."

"I'm not sick."

"Does that matter?"

She shrugged, but smiled. "Not really, no."

He'd brought them muesli and they sat and ate in a peaceable silence. "You know," Mark said, studiously pushing his cereal around the bowl, "I can count the number of times on one hand I've had breakfast in bed."

"Clearly this is something you need to do more often."

"Well… it is infinitely preferable to do so with someone." He looked up and grinned almost bashfully. It was one of the sexiest sights she'd ever seen, damn her fluctuating hormones.

Mark loaned her another shirt in which she could lounge as he laundered her blouse and skirt; it amused her to see him surreptitiously stealing a glance at her bare legs, though honestly his shirt was so big on her it came down further than some of her skirts did.

They ended up staying in, which was unlike any other day in with a brand new… _well, I suppose I can call him 'boyfriend'_, she thought with a smile; instead of the usual activities associated with the first blush of romance, they spent most of the day talking. After he spent a little time more seriously reviewing the papers Rebecca had sent over—she tried to be patient, but wasn't very good at it—they sat and read the paper together, offering spirited opinions on the news of the day; they played a DVD and sat curled up together, sharing the occasional sweet little tender kiss; they took a walk to and around Holland Park then had dinner at a lovely little bistro. He didn't even seem to care that she was completely devoid of makeup except for the powder she'd swatted on her face. Everything about the day was perfect, she mused, except for the fact that it was drawing to a close.

…

After all of the time they'd previously spent talking to one another, it should not have surprised Mark at all how easy the conversation flowed that day, but it had. He had expected that the change in status would somehow turn every conversation into a booby-trap. He was very grateful that it had not.

As they walked back to his house post-dinner, she said in a rather dismal tone, "Probably have to go home soon. God, I wish tomorrow wasn't Monday and work and all that."

He wished the same—which also surprised him, as he had always been a bit of a workaholic—but there was nothing to be done about it. He slipped his arm around her shoulders, leaned towards her then kissed the top of her head. "We can see each other again soon enough." After a moment, he added, "Tomorrow, dinner."

She chuckled, slipping her arm around his waist. "Go you one better," she said. "How about lunch?"

_I'd counter with breakfast in bed again if I could_, he thought. "You're on."

They went into the house long enough for Bridget to retrieve something she said she'd left behind; she was a bit pink as she said it so he guessed it was to get her forgotten stockings from the upstairs chair. She came back downstairs and he held out his hand to her. She looked to him warily, but accepted it. He pulled her close to him.

"Just wanted to give you a kiss goodnight before we leave," he said.

"You can always—" She stopped when he cupped her face reverently with his hands.

"A _proper_ kiss goodnight," he amended.

"Oh," she whispered, then lifted her chin to accept the kiss.

He placed his lips on hers, kissing her tenderly; she eagerly invited him to deepen the kiss as he had the night before, which he had not dared do earlier that day for fear of rousing his passion on the comfort of a sofa. Too tempting. Standing the foyer, however, he felt he could indulge a little. She didn't seem to mind, either. It was the feel of her hands on his waist that pulled him from this bliss and back to reality. He stepped back as she opened her eyes.

"I could see why you might not have wanted to do that in the car in front of my building," she said throatily, her eyes shining, her cheeks flushed. "Mr Ramdas is a nosy old man."

This made him chuckle. He reached and took her hand. "Come on, let's take you home."

The drive was in pleasant silence, which gave him time to consider how unlike any other 'morning after' it had been. Granted, he and Bridget had not actually made love, but he was beginning to realise that he had shared a far greater intimacy with her than he had done with previous lovers, who had given the general impression that nothing at all of great importance had happened: Breakfast over a small cup of fruit and a glass of herbal tea; hot or cold cereal and coffee for him. Maybe accompanied by her trivial, shallow, meaningless chit-chat. Maybe it was cool, business-like directives for the day, or for when they might appear at the next high-profile social function. More often than not, though, there was simply no conversation at all, only a feigned interest in the daily newspaper. Breakfast in bed was seen as frivolous and inefficient. Certainly none of it could be termed 'basking in the afterglow'.

Very different indeed.

Despite the send-off in the foyer, he did linger in his kiss after walking her to the front stoop of the building; nothing quite so passionate, though, not where Mr Ramdas might see, whomever or wherever he was. He smiled to think of it.

"Think about where you might want to have lunch," Mark said. "I'll come for you at noon."

"Okay," she said with a smile. He waited for her to get safely into the building before getting into the car and driving off.

It wasn't until he switched off the ignition that he realised, upon arriving at the office the next day, Daniel would most likely greet him with a smug grin on his face a mile wide.

…

_Mon, 14 Aug_

"So you're telling me you're not free for lunch."

"That's what I'm telling you. Yes."

Daniel raised a brow and leaned back in his chair. "Sharon?"

"No."

"Jude? Tom?" he asked; Bridget shook her head. "Magda and her million kids?" Now she laughed. "Well, hell, Bridge. Who ranks above your future ex-husband for a lunch date?"

The way she looked away and turned bright red gave him the first inkling of who that person might be. The next inkling was when the lift door opened and a very familiar person came hesitantly through and onto the floor. Daniel stood to wave the newcomer up and into his office.

"Well, well!" he said with a smile as the door closed again. "I'm sure you're not here to see me, Darce."

"Hello," Mark Darcy said meekly. "I'm here for Bridget. We're having lunch."

It struck Daniel that Mark was behaving as if he were cowing before a sceptical and wary father. "For Christ's sake, Mark, I'm not going to bollock you," he said. "Though I do expect you to have her back in an hour and fully dressed." At Mark's expression, he chuckled. "Oh, come on. I _am_ the one who—"

"Have you decided where you'd like to go?" Mark interrupted. Daniel could very clearly see a crimsoning of the skin around Mark's highly starched collar.

"I have, yes," she said, turning to face him.

"I'll, um, go call for the lift." Mark nodded to acknowledge Daniel with a slight grin, then left the office.

"So how did you spend your weekend?" Daniel asked.

"Taking care of a sick friend," she said. She then revealed a small smile. "A sick _boy_friend."

The feelings that churned up at hearing her say this were bittersweet; he loved her enough that he wanted her to be happy, even if it meant the happiness was with someone else. Honestly, Mark had always had the tendency to be a bit of a stiff, but he had also always been an honourable man. And he might just be good enough for her. "Excellent work," said Daniel, effecting a serious tone.

Bridget smirked, then popped up and pecked him on the cheek. "Thank you," she whispered before she left to join Mark at the lift door. It came; they stepped inside. Just before the doors closed, Daniel spied Mark taking her hand.

_Fri, 15 Sept_

Time was running out.

Fifteen minutes until Mark was due to show, and she hadn't even finished doing her legs. Slow and steady, she told herself; otherwise you risk nicking your shin, which is the opposite of attractive. She had at least picked out something nice to wear.

Not that she intended on dressing yet.

They'd been dating very regularly for more than a month now, more than just Friday or Saturday night: lunch nearly every day, dinner as often as possible. She felt more comfortable with him than she had with any other person in her life. Both her parents and his had been absolutely ecstatic when they'd shared the news. Magda and Jeremy were smugly pleased. Her other friends did not seem to know quite what to make of him, mostly because he was so different from past boyfriends (and especially from Daniel), but they had voiced approval nonetheless.

The month with him had been wonderful; he had been caring and attentive, helping her to find her balance. The physical closeness with no expectations of her had helped to provide a sense of immense security to her during a time of healing and of uncertainty.

Tonight, however… it was time to change things up a bit. After spending so much time with him, serious contemplation, and soul-searching, she knew she was ready to consummate this relationship. In fact, she had not been more certain about anything in her life, especially since the simplest touch of his fingers on her skin was driving her crazy with longing.

Her legs were now smooth and nick-free, and she was just applying a delicately scented lotion to them when she heard the entryphone ring. She smirked, pulled a little at the towel that was tucked in around her chest to widen the split and reveal more leg, then went to answer it.

"It's me." Mark.

"Come on up." Best not to say too much, she reasoned. He'd be too astounded to see her in nothing but a towel to reprimand her for not being dressed for dinner.

In short order came the knock on the flat door. She went down for it. He looked appropriately surprised. "Bridget."

"Come on up," she said, leading him into the flat. "Won't be a moment." She walked back towards her bedroom; she turned to see he was not following. "Come and keep me company."

"I think I'll wait for you here."

She offered what she hoped was her most seductive smile. "Mark. It's not the 1800s. You can come back here with me."

She saw his jaw tense. "I think it's best you get dressed without me to distract you."

_More like me distracting you_, she thought. "Okay, fine, won't be a moment."

Plan B.

She went to the bedroom, slipped into her bra and pants (the laciest, prettiest set she owned), stepped into the dress but only held it up to her chest, then called, "Mark, I could use your help with the zip." She heard his footsteps approach; he entered the room with an expression of curiosity on his face.

"You might have better luck if you actually pull the dress on," he said in an attempt to be wry, though the softness of his eyes, the gaze that lingered on her shoulders, gave him away.

She offered him a little smile, then turned around; the dress was draped so that her entire back was bare. She cast a glance back to him over her shoulder. Ever so slightly, his expression had changed. She saw definite appreciation. "You could help me with that, too," she said.

She could see the conflict playing on his face. He wanted dearly to play along—surely he knew full well that she was capable of dressing herself—but something was holding him back. Then, as if he'd come to a decision he stepped closer, reaching for the sleeve of the dress. His fingers brushed along her upper arm as he did. She sucked in a quick breath. His other hand came up to her other arm. She made a soft sound, leaned back… and dropped the dress.

"Bridget," he said, his gravelly voice close to her ear. "What are you doing? I thought you needed a zip."

She turned to face him again, placing her hands flat on his chest, then raking her nails down as she raised her eyes to him. "Mark," she said. "I need much more than a zip."

He drew back. To her surprise, he looked slightly stern. "Darling," he said gently, his gaze not leaving her face. "There's no hurry."

She had never known a man so resistant to this kind of temptation. "Do you… not like what you see?"

He chuckled. "Oh, I like what I see very much."

"Then what…" she trailed off; her mind raced through the possibilities. "Is there a… _problem_?"

"I think you're all too aware that _that_ is not true," he said with a slight pursing of his lips; yes, she had in fact felt ample evidence of his desire during the snogging in which they had indulged.

"I mean," she added, "if there were, that wouldn't change anything—I love you too much."

He blinked rapidly; she realised that the declaration was the first of its kind between them. He came near again, took her hand in his, and said, "I love you too much to rush things."

With that she was in his arms and he was holding her tight; only then did she realise she was sobbing uncontrollably. She pressed her fingers into his shoulders, clinging to him as if for dear life. _Maybe he's right_, she thought. _Not even hearing 'I love you' should do this to me._

"It's all right," he murmured, stroking her hair.

"I know," she managed. "I know."

It was, in fact, more than all right.

…

_Thurs, 9 Nov_

Birthday: thirty-three.

It was practically all Mark had heard about for the last month whenever she spoke with her friends; not that he minded, but he thought it was silly that Bridget should obsess about her age like that. He supposed, though, that if that were the least of her worries…

He smiled. She was happy, and so was he. Happier than he had been in the whole of his life, though the self-imposed immunity to her allure was definitely wearing down. He could only think of the ways in which she had, inadvertently or not, aroused his passion and almost tempted him to break the promise he'd made to himself. To wait until she was ready.

After nearly four months since her miscarriage, almost three since they'd begun to see each other, he felt it was finally the right time. He had every intention of making it a wonderful birthday for her.

He collected her from work and gave her a quick peck on the cheek; on her desk sat the bouquet of tulips he'd brought at lunch. "Happy birthday, darling."

She beamed a smile up at him. "Thank you. It's been a great day," she said. "So where are we going?"

"Your favourite," he said with a wink. She narrowed her eyes but smiled at this bit of intrigue. She slipped into her jacket then gathered up her bag. They waved to Daniel as they left. He waved back.

"Oh," she said as the lift arrived, "he's found a new girlfriend, you know."

"Again?" asked Mark absently. She playfully punched his shoulder.

"It's the same one," she said. "I just forgot I told you."

"Anna," said Mark. "She runs a catering business."

"Oh, no, they split—he said she was too perky in the morning," said Bridget. "Now it's Carla. She's the hostess at—oh, right! Where are we going?"

He chuckled. "You'll love it."

She did, in fact, love it; they went to a high-end pizzeria in Notting Hill in which everything, including the crust, was made for them from scratch. Mark opted for a four-cheese, while Bridget went for one with mozzarella, spicy salami and fresh basil. Between the two of them they polished off a bottle of the Malvasia chardonnay, which Bridget utterly adored. He knew this because she had imbibed most of the bottle herself.

"What about dessert?" she asked after taking in the last of the wine. "The tiramisu looks awfully good."

"I've got that covered at home," he said. "Proper birthday cake."

"Ooh," she said, beaming a smile. She reached to cover his hand with her own. "This has been a wonderful, _wonderful_ night."

"You're not too squiffy to stand up, are you?" he teased.

She made a little scoffing sound as Mark retrieved his wallet from his suit jacket to pay the bill. He noted that when they stood to leave, she was a little wobbly on her heeled shoes, after all.

He parked in his drive as he had so many times before with her as a passenger, but found himself feeling nervous as hell. He knew it was ridiculous; there was no way in the world he was going to be disappointed. Perhaps he was worried she might be.

"You all right?" she asked.

"Fine." He turned off the ignition. "Come on."

He opened the door, allowed her in first before closing and locking it. He then went to her, reached for her hand with one of his, then cupped her face with the other before bending to give her a kiss. "I'm glad you had such a lovely day," he said.

"Thanks to you," she said.

He let go of her hand and slipped his arm around her waist. "You have a choice now," he said. "We can go downstairs for cake and ice cream, or we can go upstairs."

"Well, durr," she said with a grin. "Downstairs!"

He furrowed his brow. "What?"

"Well, it's far too early to go to sleep! Plus, you know… cake!"

He blinked in his confusion, then began to chuckle. "Darling," he said gently, then kissed her on the cheek close to her ear, "I propose more than just sleeping."

"Oh," she said; she turned quickly to meet his eyes, then she smiled. "You're a cruel man, giving me a choice like that." She placed her lips on the corner of his mouth, and they lingered there tantalisingly. "No choice," she breathed. "Bring on the cake." Before he had a chance to respond, she threw her arms around his neck and pecked him on the mouth. "Kidding, Mark," she said, then kissed him again. "Kidding."

He swept her up into his arms then carried her up the stairs to his room, where he had, in advance, set bouquet upon bouquet of red tulips in vases on the bureau, nightstand, and on every horizontal surface of the room. The light floral scent was heady and delicious. The recessed lighting was set to its lowest setting, and strung from post to post on the bed were tiny, delicate fairy light lamps. "Oh, Mark," she said as he set her down onto the edge of the bed. "It's _beautiful_ in here."

He smiled, feeling almost shy as he sat beside her. "Well, it's for you, darling."

Her blue eyes were shining as she reached up to touch his face with her fingertips; it seemed like she might say something, but instead, she leaned forward and kissed him.

The waiting heightened every moment of making love to her; he relished slipping her clothes from her, from every button on her shirt down to bra and pants; he delighted in kissing her soft, warm skin, shoulder to throat, breast to navel, hip to inner knee; he loved the feel of her bare body against his, beneath his. When they joined at last, the sensation was beyond anything he'd ever felt, and he cried out her name as if it were a prayer, buried his face in her fragrant hair, as her fingers pressed into his back, as he found his release.

Despite his head swimming in a flood of endorphins, he took great care to ensure her own satisfaction and he thought, given her own moans and cries, given the feel of her shudders and sighs, that she was amply gratified.

He pulled her to him, holding on to her as if she might fade away like a dream, planting little kisses along her hairline, her throat; her heart was racing and she was panting for air. Her fingers tangled into his hair; the nails grazed gently to the nape, causing him to shiver a little. She let out a long exhale breath and seemed to subside into him.

"All I know," she murmured, "is that I'm not waiting three months to do that again."

This elicited a laugh under his breath. As difficult as it had been to wait, he would not have changed a moment of the last three months. He was more certain than ever that she loved him for who he was, and not only for caring for her during her darkest hour. He was also certain that she was assured he wanted more than sex.

She went on. "And to think I accused you once of impotence. Oh, God. How rude of me. And the fact that you hauled me up the stairs without a stitch in your breath should have been my clue—"

At this he laughed outright though low in his throat, as he nuzzled into hers. "Hush," he commanded with gentle authority, "or you'll never get your cake."

"Is that a threat," she said, tracing her fingers down the valley of his spine, "or a promise?"


	12. Chapter 12

**It's a Nice Day to Start Again**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 78,546  
Chapters: 11 + epilogue  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Epilogue.

The quiet, throaty chuckle behind him, the soft feel of her hand on his shoulder, made him smile.

"You're watching it again?" she asked.

"Of course." He had just turned on the video from the christening: the young boy held on to his mother's hand, peering with curiosity over the edge into where an infant was sleeping soundly; he turned up for approval before reaching out to gently pat the fine blonde hair on the baby's head…. How many times he had watched it, and still he couldn't seem to get enough of it. He smiled.

"You know, you could put that on the telly, larger than life." She knew his answer, though; he liked to play these videos on his laptop as a mental respite between work tasks. From her position behind him, she combed her nails through his hair in a subconscious and familiar manner, starting at his temples and back over the nape, before she bent and kissed the crown of his head, then lingered. She was watching too, and chuckled. "Hmm, too bad we can't hear what he's saying."

"It isn't often I hear you say _that_," he said. This made her laugh again.

She brought her hands to his shoulders then to his upper arms. "Almost done?" she asked, then bent and delivered a tantalising kiss to the side of his neck.

He wasn't, but he certainly could be. She'd barely had a moment free over the last six months. "Done for today, I think," he said, then swivelled in his chair to face her. "How about you?"

She grinned, then wiggled her brows. "I am all yours."

He felt a sense of disbelief. "_All_ mine?"

She nodded, caressing his face tenderly. "Mm-hm," she reaffirmed. "Magda to the rescue."

The video continued playing to his right, and her attention was captured momentarily by it. She smiled; smiling always made her beautiful, but there was a special quality to her expression whenever she watched the videos. "He's such a little personality," she said, then turned back to him, the same tender expression on her face. "I'm so lucky to have him."

He pulled her to sit across his lap, gently stroked her cheek then kissed her. "We both are," he said, then added teasingly, gesturing towards the wailing baby on the computer screen, "and that squiggling pink crying monster we call his sister."

She giggled at this, then placed her palm lovingly against his cheek and bent to kiss him before she drew back to meet his gaze.

"Penny for your thoughts," she asked tenderly, tracing her fingertip along his brow.

He wondered where to begin, listing the things for which he was immeasurably thankful. An amazing woman on his lap, beautiful to her very soul, and with whom he'd had the pleasure and joy of producing two children; along with her, they were the light, the very centre of his life. Friends on whom they could count to babysit when needed so that he could remind her how much happiness she had brought to his life, and so she could do the same; friends who provided their children with the warm, loving extended urban family (to borrow one of her coined phrases) that every child needed, to supplement the strong tie between their own blood families; and particularly a redeemed friend who could and did play the role of eccentric uncle for two parents who were themselves without siblings.

"You know," he said casually, offering a warm smile. "The usual."

"Ah," she said. "Gratitude that you have thus far resisted throttling my mother."

He laughed abruptly, then kissed her again; he then rose, taking her up in his arms. "Yes, that's _exactly_ what I'm grateful for."

_The end._

* * *

Notes:

For actual links (more than what's here), you'll have to visit the same page at: www, stillwatersdeep, altervista, org [slash] StartAgain [slash] index12, php (use your imagination as to how to properly parse this).

Snippet of Tarts and Vicars weekend hotel room conversation comes from the BJD screenplay.

Calendar layout for the movie coincides with 2006. However, this is clearly not actually 2006. ;)

The Bridge Hotel is a real hotel with which I am taking enormous liberties. Looks like a lovely place and, in terms of driving, is fairly close to Grafton Underwood.

"Hospitals told to lift mobile phone ban": a news story that's from 2009. This is all happening now, anyway—right?

Black bean and brown rice cold salad and another cold rice salad (page in Italian). Doesn't sound half bad!

Divorce lump sum settlements apparently not taxable in the UK.

Mews of Mayfair seems like a pretty nice bar.

Bridget's charity: The Great Initiative.


End file.
